


A Deep Itch to Scratch

by DemonQueen666



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: norsekink, F/M, Genderswap, Group Sex, M/M, Male Slash, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild S&M, Mpreg, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Romance Ensues, Smut, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonQueen666/pseuds/DemonQueen666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unbeknownst to him, Loki's physiology as a Frost Giant sends him into heat. What starts off as a mere annoyance becomes more and more puzzling, more and more troubling, and eventually turns into a desperate situation as he tries to find release from his inexplicable 'ailment'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy PWP at the beginning leading to eventual mpreg and Loki/Balder romance.
> 
> Originally posted as a WIP (9/21/11 - 10/19/11) in response to a prompt at the norsekink community on Livejournal, round four. Utilizes movie canon with elements from both the comics and Norse mythology.

Compared to his fellow Asgardians, Loki has always been a subtle creature, calculating and coy. While the average man in their society typically deals with lust by storming into the feasting hall after a battle, hot-blooded and boasting, flexing his muscles and roaring with laughter as he boisterously declares his intention to ride the first maid he can find until her back is broken…that is not Loki’s way. At such displays, he only rolls his eyes. Though if he is in a slyer mood he may begin loudly countering the talk with his own remarks; that he’s heard the speaking warrior, in truth, needs to go to Nidavellir for bearded women are the only ones that will willingly lay with him, that his manhood is not even half the size he is claiming, that he is so lackluster in bed that his own wife prefers kissing _girls_ , and so on.

 

The less observant mutter that Loki must be coldblooded, chaste; that he knows not even what arousal _is_. But just because he does not show his attractions in public and does not brag of his conquests after, does not mean Loki doesn’t have them. His manner in both pursuit and capture, so to speak, is as concealed and careful in lovemaking as in all other aspects of his life – and also just as artfully practiced.

 

Still. It is true, that while his brother, their companions, and just about every other male on their world could complain of being hot and bothered almost any night of their life, Loki has always been able to make a little satisfaction go a long way. He watches and waits, plucks a perfect opportunity off the vine like a ripened fruit, and then goes on his merry way, well aware he will be content in body and mind for quite some time.

 

At least that is the way that things always have been. But recently, very suddenly, something has changed.

 

It’s a feeling inside of him in some deep down place he can’t reach. Above it, his skin tingles and itches. His body feels warm, so warm; _too_ warm, uncomfortably so. He feels out of sorts, distracted - so very unlike himself it’s frustrating, unnerving. It’s a feeling like something is stuck in his throat that he can’t rid himself of no matter how he swallows, his mouth gone dry.

 

Only it isn’t his throat, it’s his whole _body_. His muscles are taut. His blood rushes so he can feel it by merely pressing a finger to a vein. He can taste his own pulse. Every sense is heightened to hyper-sensitivity, and he finds himself watching those around him with a wired desperation he hasn’t known since adolescence. His eyes linger over the curves of shapely legs and arms and the pale flush of an exposed neck.

 

He has, to put it bluntly, sex on the brain. On his skin, in his pores, on the tip of his tongue like some dish he is craving for.

 

And it will _not_ go away.

 

No one finds anything odd, that Loki sits in a crowded room acting as if he is leagues away from those around him, something on his mind that locks his mouth into silence; everything about him completely still save for his gleaming eyes, which take in everything with a sharp cool ferocity. He has always been the sort to stay quiet and observe. And if anyone would’ve expected by now that he would have broken in with clever words or a new jest, well. The longer period of restraint just means that the wheels are spinning especially hard with the complexities of a scheme.

 

Oh, if only. The fact of the matter is Loki is feeling so wanton and distracted that _he_ , of all people, literally cannot think.

 

With each day the situation does not pass but somehow manages to grow worse. Carrying on conversations has become difficult. He cannot focus on his reading. Sleep is getting harder and harder to reach at night, and he finds himself tossing and turning between the sheets, rubbing his body against the mattress in an instinctive desire to find friction and solace, but it is never, ever enough. He abandons the sparring ring completely, though he snubs that so often anyway that nobody even misses him. Using his magic is challenging – the art of sorcery demands focus, the ability to channel his energy, and he struggles to do that when so much of his energy is currently tied up in nameless _lust_.

 

He has no appetite in this state. But he gives himself an extra serving of dessert at dinner, purposefully getting honey on his fingers so that he can place them inside his mouth and suck, fingernails scraping the flat edge of his incisors. Loki is a creature of habit. His particular style has several refined specific techniques, so that he will always associate sex with teeth and hands.

 

He blames his brother, he decides, after a long period of fretful pondering. Thor’s coronation looms near, and Loki is well aware soon he must figure out how to stop it and set whatever plan he makes into motion. The small betrayal will only delay the inevitable, but he hopes delay is all that is needed. Maybe in another century or two Thor will have grown up more, and he can become king without Loki fearing he’ll destroy himself in the process and take them all with him.

 

Clearly, all the worrying about Thor has set him on edge, his body channeling the stress into this bizarre physical tension. He needs to rid himself of it, and fast, so he can clear his mind and get back to doing what needs to be done.

 

Taking himself in hand doesn’t help. The release is fleeting, unsatisfactory. The burning in his flesh only becomes more maddening, the pit in his stomach growing deeper and wider as he craves another’s touch.

 

In the middle of the day Loki slinks to the public bathhouse. Alone he sulks in icy water up past his neck, trying to literally drown his misery. It washes the feeling of sweat off his skin, cools him, but he’s unable to relax. The temperature makes an erection almost physically impossible but he can feel the slow throbbing in his manhood that means it’s only a matter of time.

 

He needs to lay with someone. Someone he can bed quickly, with little effort, for right now he is in no state to perform a proper seduction.

 

But that approach has risks, for he also needs a _decent_ fuck, if he has any hope of getting this out of his system in a single blow. And it’s a little hard to get a measure of someone when you’re attempting a grab and run.

 

_Fandral_ , he decides abruptly, licking his teeth inside closed lips. Loki makes it a point to hear _everything_ , for he never knows what might come in use – and for all of Fandral the Dashing’s swagger, there are others besidehim eager to comment on his prowess. One might say he comes _highly_ recommended. And while he only brags about the women, Loki knows he’ll take a man on occasion.

 

He and the warrior have never as much as locked eyes meaningfully before. But it’s easy to note Fandral is a man so readily and eagerly bedded, all a serving girl has to do is wink.

 

And for once, fortune surely smiles on Loki. For even as he’s settling the thoughts in his mind, the door swings open – in strides Fandral, whistling obliviously as he rids himself of armor and clothes.

 

The water conceals Loki’s smirk. He glides forward like a predator in the deep.

 

Fandral is still whistling as he approaches the tap, clad only in a towel. Loki tingles as he drinks in an eyeful of toned polished muscles and purposefully tanned skin. Vanity does have its occasional benefits.

 

He steals a glance around, already knowing they’re alone.

 

“Washing up after your exercise, Fandral?”

 

The addressed comes close to giving a decidedly unmanly shriek.

 

“ _Loki!_ Honestly, friend, you know how I feel about you sneaking up on a fellow like that,” Fandral chides, shaken, but he’s grinning with an attempt at good humor as he says it. He makes a point of keeping his gaze at the level of Loki’s eyes, but otherwise is unconcerned by their shared nudity.

 

“My apologies.” Loki moves closer so that their arms are almost touching and still Fandral doesn’t blink. He just stands there, hands on his hips, smiling the same blank smile.

 

But Loki smiles slowly, eyelids lowering as he continues, “But you know, in truth, I’m not really all that sorry.”

 

“Oh?” Fandral huffs, chuckling absently. “And why is that?”

 

“Maybe I wanted to see you flinch.” There’s a low meaningfulness in his tone as Loki says it. He reaches out, fingers curling in Fandral’s beard to give it a careful tug. “There’s just something about watching you… _flinch_.”

 

Fandral’s mouth drops open slightly. He blinks at him, agog. “I…er, beg pardon?” His voice is strained and cracks, just a bit.

 

Loki steps in against him. Their hips bump – it sends a much-desired shiver up Loki’s spine, and he rests a hand on Fandral’s shoulder. Knuckles tightening, he strokes collarbone with his thumb. His other hand goes lower, much lower. Fandral instinctively puts his hands up, bracing them against the middle of Loki’s abdomen. His towel drops to the floor.

 

“What are you doing?” Fandral demands hoarsely. His eyes are wide; bewildered, maybe even frightened.

 

Loki leans even further forward so their eyes match and the heat of his breath ghosts on Fandral’s skin. He watches the way it makes the other man shiver. “Can it not be obvious, what I want? What I’m intending?”

 

Loki enunciates his words carefully, so that lips move slow and teeth show more than briefly. He inflects so his tongue curves, tip brushing the edge of his mouth. Fandral watches every motion, hypnotized.

 

“Does Fandral the Dashing, of all people, need instruction in how to read the signs?”

 

“This is,” Fandral manages to drag his eyes away to meet Loki’s, “highly unlike you.”

 

Loki allows himself a thin smile. “You think I’m frigid. Just as everyone else does.”

 

“No!” Fandral exclaims instantly, eyes widening with the fear of offending a prince. Then he fumbles backward, “I mean, well, _yes_. I mean – I don’t _know_. You never talk about-” He trails off with a flustered wave of one arm.

 

Loki grabs his bicep and Fandral stops moving. He doesn’t resist as Loki pulls his arm closer, as Loki gently cups the curve of his palm in his and then slides his mouth over Fandral’s thumb.

 

Loki closes his eyes, savoring the taste and feel as his lips glide against skin. He feels the water falling in steady droplets off his own wet hair, down his back.

 

When he is finished he opens his eyes again and says, “I am not. Frigid.”

 

Fandral opens and closes his mouth several times before going, “I can see that.”

 

He seems to forget his hand is still in Loki’s grasp or at least makes no attempt to remove it. “You must admit though, you’ve picked a…an _odd_ time for showing it.”

 

“How so?” Loki murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “You’re here, and so am I…and no one else is.”

 

“What, you mean – right _here?_ ” Fandral looks around, distracted. “Right _now?_ ” He cuts off with an inhale, almost a gasp, as Loki’s grip tightens around his cock.

 

“Am I intruding on your careful schedule?” Loki remarks, hushed, as he touches Fandral with hard careful strokes, and rubs against his body, grinding. “Perhaps you intended to use this time for polishing your armor. Or combing your hair. If so, by all means, I apologize for interrupting-”

 

“Heavens, man, I haven’t even _washed_ yet!” Fandral exclaims in a choked manner, trying to laugh and succeeding in only making an odd sound instead.

 

“Good. I like the sweat.” His free hand goes to the back of Fandral’s neck, fingertips pressing down, nails digging, just enough as a promise. “I like the _smell_ of you.” He breathes in deep; he isn’t lying. This is feeding his arousal in nearly unbearable pleasure. “The musk.”

 

There’s only so much Fandral and his very prim, very feeble sense of self-control can take. A sound escapes his throat that is both growl and whine as his hips start bucking against Loki’s hand.

 

He makes to grab for Loki’s waist, stepping forward – and Loki gives in more easily than he was expecting, allowing the other man to lift him right off of the ground. He lets go of Fandral’s cock, bracing his hand on one shoulder.

 

He admires briefly just how very _nice_ a figure Fandral cuts. His trim waist, the muscles of his stomach. Those legs. Those arms. His coiffed hair and well-groomed mustache, currently somewhat lank and loose with heat and sweat. Those very broad shoulders, put to good use by the deft, expert strokes of his sword.

 

But Loki has no time to take in the view. His body is screaming at him, this close to what he’s been thirsting for without end the past few days. His nerves are alive, every touch giving him bliss even as it makes that voice inside plead, _More, please, so close._

Fandral stumbles forward, off-balance. Loki is taller than he, but he’s also flexible. He slides a leg up, calf braced against Fandral’s shoulder, his back colliding with the wall. He grabs a shelf above his head to hold onto, bottles and pots crashing to the tile at Fandral’s feet down below.

 

“Go on,” Loki breathes, as much a command as it is entreaty. “ _Go on_. I want…I _need_ …”

 

“By the nine skies, what has gotten _into_ you?” Fandral groans, as aroused as he is overwhelmed. He stares up at Loki, his writhing, trembling body, the way he’s offering himself to him. He looks and sounds more than a little unsettled.

 

“I know what I want, that’s all,” Loki manages, voice sticking in his throat out of pure frustrated longing. “I know that you want to give it me.”

 

For a moment Fandral is uneasy again. “If your brother ever found out-”

 

But Loki cuts him off, grabbing the back of his head as he leans forward with a hiss. “Thor _isn’t here_.”

 

It’s good enough for Fandral. With some dexterous maneuvering he manages to get Loki into position, teeth set, mouth parting as he enters him.

 

Loki is still wet from his bath and he clenches tight, reveling in the friction. His head tilts upward, neck and back arching, eyes fluttering closed.

 

“Oh.” It escapes him as a soft moan, almost too quiet to be heard. But he seems to lose control of his voice, it now attached to whatever part of him is controlled by his desperate desire, and as Fandral fucks him, steady and hard and _good_ ,against the wall, his words fly out in a keen: “Oh. Yes. _Please._ ”

 

He leaves a scratch, not quite enough to draw blood, down the upper part of Fandral’s back. Fandral laps his tongue around one nipple, then bites the erect nub. He presses his fingers into Loki’s stomach just below his ribs. He kisses then nips then sucks at a sensitive area beside his throat.

 

Loki’s knuckles twine in the hair at the nape of Fandral’s neck.

 

“Almost…almost…more…” he gasps. “Don’t stop…don’t stop… _don’t stop_ …!”

 

Fandral is groaning, panting, body shuddering as he holds not the slightest bit back, pounding into Loki with all that he’s got. Spots dance in Loki’s eyes, the sensations turning into a white hot void that threatens to swallow him. He _wants_ it to. He’s almost there; he can feel it, the looming ecstasy of release.

 

_So close, so close, please…yes…!_

 

He comes all over Fandral’s stomach with a sharp, bitten-off cry, just moments before Fandral finally does.

 

Fandral wheezes, and barely manages not to drop him. Loki slides off of him and then down, holding on until he’s certain he’s able to stand.

 

They linger in that position, both catching their breath, hands resting against one another’s upper bodies.

 

As he recovers, Fandral chuckles, and he lifts his head to look Loki in the eye. “Not _bad_ ,” he professes, in a tone of supreme understatement. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

 

Loki blinks – and then shrugs. Still reeling from afterglow, he hardly spares a thought for anything outside the wonderful vague almost-quiet in his head. “Maybe,” he offers, indifferent.

 

Fandral looks hurt, but mostly confused. He lets go and pulls back, and when Loki walks away (limping slightly) he doesn’t follow.

 

They wash up at opposite ends of the bathhouse, in complete silence, not looking at one another.

 

Loki dresses and leaves, not sparing a glance behind him as he thinks in relief, _Glad that’s over with_. Now he can finally get on with planning. Back to his life.

 

Except as he rests in the library, examining a book on the ancient forgotten pathways of Yggdrasil, the rush of pleasure and satisfaction that comes in the aftermath of sex swiftly fades. And as it does, he feels his skin start to prickle again, heat and arousal sweeping over it.

 

As he sits there stiff with disbelief, he still senses the same warmth and need and restless craving slowly but undeniably begin to build all over again.


	2. Chapter 2

Evidently a quick and dirty fuck was not the solution to his predicament. Loki finds that to be very aggravating.

 

Matters aren’t helped by how Fandral remains notably out of sorts. He avoids looking directly at Loki, instead taking to glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. If Loki turns towards him he swiftly twists his head away; and if Thor is anywhere near he starts at about every movement, every word, constantly fighting a guilty look and acting sometimes as if he feels vaguely ill. He doesn’t speak to Loki. And then he tries to cover it by making an awkward statement addressed directly to him, always punctuated by a forced laugh, the sound bristling in an irritating manner against Loki’s skin.

 

He barely pays attention to Fandral, though. He’s too caught up in his own head, trying determinedly to puzzle out what’s happening to him.

 

In the days following the bathhouse the tension builds up in his body again, at rate simultaneously both annoying and alarming. In no time at all it seems he’s back exactly where he started. In fact it seems even worse, if only because of how it’s been going on now for such an extended period.

 

It knots in him like a cord, tighter and tighter; knots twisted on top of otherknots, until there’s a coil settled inside his belly that trembles and clenches at every move.

 

His senses are on overload. Touch is the worst, every inch of his skin growing uncomfortably, distressingly tactile. Never has he been gladder of his habit of wearing clothes that keep so much of his body covered; a high collar a defense against the shiver of a careless whisper into his ear, a long and layered sleeve saving him from a hand tugging his forearm for attention. Even still, it isn’t enough.

 

Everything his hands touch, from thin fragile pages of books to the polished edge of a dagger to the smooth wood of a tabletop, makes him think of his fingers gliding along a body, caressing flesh, threading hair.

 

He takes to wearing gloves, and a good thing too. Without realizing it he’s picked up the nervous habit of biting his knuckles, placing a finger at a time into his mouth and worrying it between his teeth. The layer of fabric saves him from scraped hands, but even beneath them his skin starts to turn red.

 

Loki doesn’t understand it. He _enjoyed_ the sex – it was good, it filled the need, it hit him in all the right places. So why wasn’t it able to work his stress out of him? Why is he still in this distracted state?

 

Obviously he has more pent-up energy than he thought that needs expelling. Maybe once wasn’t enough.

 

Maybe he needs to find somebody different, and have another go.

 

Of course now that means the question is _who_. Fandral was an obvious choice, a nice easy solution – that solved absolutely nothing. He’s at a loss where he should look next.

 

Caught up in the narrow focus of his thoughts, his feet tend to wander without him noticing or caring as to their destination. Which is how he comes to find himself one afternoon standing near the edge of the training ground.

 

The sound of combat is meaningless noise to him, but the sharp _thwack_ of shield against body causes him to start shivering uncontrollably, to the point where it threatens to turn into a shudder. He looks up.

 

Sif has just finished pummeling another opponent into the dirt, striding off with a confident smirk on her face. As she turns to set her weapons down, the sunlight glints off her armor, highlighting the curves of feminine hips and thighs that not even thick chainmail can disguise. Sif pulls her hair back, dark tresses brushing against her white skin and flushed cheeks.

 

Loki has always been attracted to Sif. Sometimes in a vague way, merely taking note of the fact she is a beautiful woman…sometimes, much less so.

 

He’s not sure precisely where it started. He remembers snipping off her plait with a pair of shears as she lay napping in the sun; that he did it because what he really wanted was to kiss her lips, and because he was only a boy, the urge confused and frightened him and he retreated to cruel pranks instead.

 

They are comrades-in-arms and have been friends since childhood, but there’s almost always been _something_ there. Something that Loki knows is not one-sided. It’s been kept restrained to the odd glance and privately-shared smile, a hand meeting another accidentally or a few murmured words that could lead somewhere, but never do. One or both of them always steps back from that precipice, uncertain what lies on the other side.

 

Loki is in no mood for romance. But maybe, maybe – this is the answer. He and Sif are both adults, fighters, neither of them an inexperienced lover. It’s a bit trickier because feelings are involved, but he has faith enough in the intellect of both of them that they can keep that separate.

 

Maybe taking a tumble together will even bring a sense of closure to the unspoken that lies between them, allowing it to stop lingering and disappear.

 

 _Sif_ , he decides firmly, nodding to himself.

 

The next morning he wakes early, for he knows she’s in the habit of going to the training ground alone, before anyone else gets there, so she can practice on the targets to her satisfaction without any unwanted distraction.

 

He finds her in the grove adjacent to the training ground, clad only in a dress and leggings. She reaches for her breastplate but before she can put it on Loki moves through the shadows, coming up behind her; drawing a startled breath from her as he is suddenly against her back, fingers curled around her shoulders.

 

Sif catches herself as she realizes it’s only him, letting her arms drop and the armor fall to the ground with an annoyed huff.

 

Loki says nothing, reveling in the feeling of her delicate warmth where the lines of their bodies meet completely, the muscles of her back pressed flush against his chest, somehow all the more arousing for the barrier of their clothing. He leans forward to breathe in her familiar scent, still very female and _strong_ for it, beneath leather and metal and dirt.

 

Sif does not notice. “What are you doing?” she asks him, eyes already rolling, as she twists her head up to look back at him over one shoulder.

 

Loki smiles at her, and something in his smile causes her expression to falter, eyes lighting with uncertainty.

 

“Nothing too remarkable,” he murmurs. “I came to see _you._ ”

 

Sif has turned wary now, and she peers into his face carefully with unconcealed suspicion. “Why?”

 

Loki gives a chuckle that he forces to sound lighter than he feels. Nothing about him is _light_ at present: he is all darkness and hunger and wasted abandon.

 

“Oh Sif,” he says. “ _Dearest_ Sif.” He brushes her hair between his naked fingers, waves curling deliciously around the joints, and slips it aside so that he can press a kiss to her neck. “Why do you think?”

 

She lets him, but only because she is too shocked to react at first.

 

The moment she recovers she spins, pulling away from him; turning to face him once she is safely out of his grasp. He can seeher pulse flutter in her throat. It makes him want to feel it beneath his eyeteeth.

 

Sif strikes him with the flat of one hand in the center of his chest, the blow more for warning and chastisement than actual pain – he barely feels it. But he aches, acutely, at the sense of her hand withdrawn. “What is this?” Sif demands. “Is it some form of trickery? Some new game to you?”

 

Her face is hot, coloring with embarrassment, desire, but also anger. Almost more than anything else Sif has _pride_. She will _not_ be made a mockery of, not as a warrior or as a woman.

 

For a moment Loki allows the desperation to show on his face. He frowns. “This is nothing even remotely close to a game,” he tells her, low. He takes a step forward – Sif stiffens, hands clenching into fists, as if she instinctively would step back from him but won’t allow it of herself.

 

Her head shakes slowly, distracted. Dazed. “But why would you...?” she begins, at a loss for words. “Why now-?”

 

Loki reaches to take her wrist in his grasp, stroking the soft underside of her arm. Her fingers uncurl, and he holds her hand in his. “Because I am in need, Sif,” he tells her gently. “Because I _want_. So much that it is almost causing me pain.”

 

With his other hand he touches the beauty mark on the side of her face, and then leans in to press a kiss there.

 

“And because,” he breathes, “you are so very lovely.”

 

Her gaze softens, resolve weakening. “Is it just me?” she asks, still suspicious but more strained. “Or would any fair maid with a willing body do?”

 

“Oh no,” he promises her. He means it – he really does. His voice takes on the brittle note it does when he tells the truth and wants so badly to be believed in it. “It couldn’t be just anybody. It must be, _has_ to be you.”

 

He can see by the way her eyes briefly narrow that she knows he isn’t saying he loves her. No, this is about sex; but it’s more than just meaningless. It’s personal. It’s lust, but it’s lust directed at her.

 

Sif seems to decide that for now, it’s good.

 

Their fingers intertwine. That alone makes Loki’s breath catch in his throat. Sif closes her eyes and they kiss.

 

Her lips, her tongue – it’s such pure ecstasy to him. But it isn’t enough. No, not nearly enough.

 

As they kiss he slides a hand down her body, from her shoulder blade, to the small of her back, to her ass, to the start of her thigh and the inside of her knee. He tries to lift her leg up and Sif already moves with him, body leaning into his.

 

Her fingers are digging into his collar as if she means to tear it right off of him as their kiss grows rougher, probing; more purposeful. Her hands tighten almost as if she wants to strangle him. The hand that isn’t groping her leg makes a fist in the back of her hair.

 

 _Yes,_ Loki thinks, mind going hazy as his drive intensifies and his bliss rises _. Perfect_.

 

Undressing is usually half the fun, but he is impatient and crazed and needs, he _needs_ it. He uses a whirlwind of magic to remove their clothes, and his erection hardens to the point of discomfort as their exposed skin is pressed together. Sif makes a surprised but pleased sound as he grinds against her, hand going to press the softness of one breast, thumb tracing the curve of her nipple. She is kissing with teeth now, tugging his lips, biting his tongue.

 

Already tangling together they tumble into the leaf-strewn dirt.

 

Sif is a warrior maid. Fucking her is like fighting. Animalistic, they grapple with limbs and roll over one another, struggling for dominance. Even as Loki is inside of her, making her lips part with a moan, face pleasured, still she is fighting him for control. But it’s not about winning; it’s about the fight itself.

 

They’re both victors, and it’s the struggle that makes it worthwhile. Sif bites his shoulder and digs her nails deep into his back. When she wraps her legs around his waist she clutches him tight, pulling him in, forcing him deeper as she curses in a breathless cry. She leaves spots that he knows will bruise.

 

Loki enjoys every second of the ride, gasping.  An electric current runs up and down his spine, jolting him to new awareness, even as he rushes things toward their inevitable conclusion. He cups her breasts and her hips and he squeezes her belly and he traces her neck with his tongue. He slips one finger inside of her alongside his cock to tease her, then another. She’s so close now. But he’s closer.

 

Everything is rough and tight and bumping and shaking and _yes yes yes._

 

For a moment Loki swears he sees stars, when he comes. Sif buckles beneath him, muscled limbs collapsing like those of an abandoned marionette.

 

They pull apart and then lay there on the ground next to each other, close enough to touch each other, but not. At this point even hands meeting would feel like a small explosion. Loki can barely hear the sound of them both panting over the blood rushing past his ears.

 

After a moment Sif pulls herself to a sitting position, arms folding over her knees loosely. She glances at Loki then looks away, eyes flashing fiercely. She wants so badly to ask what this means now, if they are anything more to each other than they were before. It’s obvious.

 

But she won’t let herself ask. It would be the womanly thing to do; the kind of ‘womanly’ that is inherently viewed as belonging to a weaker, inferior sex.

 

Loki is vaguely aware he should say something. Anything, really. But he is focused elsewhere, clenching and unclenching his hands absently, as he waits with some trepidation to see if the maddening physical desire will come back.

 

Eventually Sif gets to her feet and redresses with swift, purposeful motions. She gathers her armor and weapons but hesitates before leaving the grove. She turns back to face him.

 

“I will see you around?” she questions, softly.

 

Loki gazes up at her, face blank, distracted. “Of course,” he replies.

 

She nods once. And then she is gone.

 

By the time Loki stands, brushes the dirt off, and puts all of his clothes back on, the awful tingling sensation is returning.

 

“ _No_ ,” Loki chokes out past his horror and building yearning, infuriated. He summons a fistful of green fire and hurls it at the ground, trembling.

 

It starts to lap at the trees and he doesn’t care enough to put it out.


	3. Chapter 3

Fandral is still acting awkward, Sif’s face flushes with heat and she completely ignores him, and now Loki is so desperate and overwrought that he wants to start beating the front of his head into a wall.

 

He can’t sleep. He can’t think, or rather he _can_ think, but it’s all about the longing for friction and touch and this burning thrumming madness of _yes_ and _want_ and _please_ in his belly and in between his legs.

 

It drives him past the brink. Any minute now, he’s terrified he’s going to start breaking down publicly. He wants to tear out his hair. He wants to lock the door to his room and work himself off with his hands until it hurts. He wants to scratch at his skin, nails digging, blood welling as it breaks.

 

But he does none of these things. Instead he sits still, quiet, watching those around him feverishly as he can feel the sweat beading on his all-too-sensitive skin beneath his clothing.

 

He tries not to linger in the bath but he can’t help himself. He has to keep stopping, the feel of a wet soapy cloth rubbed all over his body causing his breath to go in and out, fearful of an audience discovering him. His fingers working in circles against his scalp as he washes his hair is almost too much to bear.

 

He thinks he eats too much at breakfast. It sits like a lump in his stomach. By early afternoon Loki finds himself stumbling to a basin as his body expels it, retching, coughing as it comes hot and slimy back up his throat.

 

Afterward he splashes his face with water and gazes disaffectedly into the mirror, fists tightening, looking at the dark circles that are forming beneath his eyes.

 

Maybe he’s been thinking about this too hard, trying to make things too personal, he muses.

 

Maybe what he needs is to get fucked over and over, exerting until the urge has been pounded out of him.

 

The soldiers assigned to serve as guards to the royal family are carefully selected, strictly trained in protocol. It is not enough they are strong and ready to fight if necessary. It’s their duty to protect the lives of their charges. There can be nothing that might compromise their duty or distract them – even their feelings towards the sight of a remarkably attractive prince or princess.

 

Throughout the week the captain of the guard is perplexed when he has no less than five men come to him at intervals of about a day or two apart, requesting they be moved to a different detail.

 

When questioned they give no real answers as to _why_ , only responding with various degrees of red faces and sheepish mumbling.

 

In the end the captain shrugs, decides some things will remain mysteries and it’s probably nothing important, and approves their transfers.

 

At the end of the week, Loki lies fully clothed on his side across his bed, stretched out. He’s sore in a few places but in a manner that’s a mild annoyance rather than fulfilling. His chin rests in one hand as he broods petulantly.

 

Not only is he still randy as all get out, he’s also incredibly disappointed. Underneath their armor and uniforms, the guards turned out to be little more than _boys_ in technique: grunting breathing and basic mechanics, reaching for hips with fumbling hands as they fucked him. They served the purpose, barely that. Loki offered a handjob to a particularly skittish one, to get him part of the way, but he came after only a few touches and was completely _useless_ for almost half an hour.

 

By now it’s begun to occur to him, that the way that he feels may not be entirely natural.

 

There’s lust, and there’s pent-up frustration, but this is becoming borderline obscene. He’s _tired_ of feeling this way, but his glands and hormones have apparently decided otherwise, in complete defiance of both will and logic.

 

A spell would explain a lot. But it also raises a whole new set of questions.

 

Loki has cast layers of protective wards around himself over the centuries, with his hobbies of taunting enemies and double-crossing would-be allies. He’s angered a fair share of sorcerers, and he is anything but careless. His mystical defenses would be far from easily breached: even in the face of potent magic they should have, if not stopped it completely, then at least _warned_ him.

 

If it _is_ some type of curse whoever could do this to him would have to be powerful, probably experienced with this particular type of magic…and then, he thinks of Amora.

 

As soon as he does, he’s surprised that it took him this long to come up with her name.

 

Amora is a sorceress – or ‘an enchantress’, as she prefers being called. Not that it makes any difference. Perhaps she thinks it makes her sound more sensual, more beguiling. That _would_ be the sort of thing that concerns her.

 

Like any Asgardian who practices magic, Loki has an acquaintance with her, but Amora is a special case; they’ve known each other practically since youth. They have a long complex history, mainly comprised of a back and forth. They’ve similar inclinations and work well together but both of them are too devious, too easily bored, to remain in a permanent alliance.

 

They have never been fully friends or completely enemies. Loki pulls pranks on her at times, his usual acts of mischief. Amora responds with a hex. Or sometimes she acts first, out of grudge or spite or simple malicious boredom, and Loki is the one who retaliates. Eventually things settle to the point where they are swapping tips and tales with civility again.

 

When they were younger, just learning, they often performed experiments with their magic together, or combined their forces to gang up against others.

 

And from time to time they sleep together, though it’s always been a case of detached pleasure, versus real emotional fondness.

 

Amora is powerful, though of course not as powerful as Loki. But he’s reluctantly willing to concede it may be only because she’s too narrow in focus, not interested in learning all there is to know the way he is, instead concentrating on broadening her already-existing skill set.

 

Amora is a seductress – every spell she knows based on feminine wiles. She craves power and falls on a woman’s old standby to getting it, coercing men into giving it to her, bending their wills with her body and more than a little dose of magic.

 

Love potions, hypnotism, aphrodisiacs. Amora is practically seduction incarnate. She’s naturally gifted with beauty that would make men fall all over themselves for her, even if she wasn’t driven to hone it as a weapon. Her body language speaks of temptations and promises, tosses of flowing golden hair and batting eyelashes, a hand placed on a purposefully jutted hip.

 

She has a younger sister: Lorelei, also skilled in magic. Loki has tangled with her on occasion too, both in and out of the bedroom. And he’s invoked her wrath a few times.

 

But if anyone has used magic such as _this_ on him, it’s Amora - not Lorelei; she’s powerful compared to many but she pales against her sister. Amora varies in behavior towards Lorelei, everything from assisting her in endeavors to actively belittling and pushing her aside, but everything goes towards the end of keeping her under her thumb. She wants all the glory for herself.

 

Amora usually gets her way. Lorelei is fair, but not as overtly lovely as her sister, and she suffers for lack of confidence. Normally she remains on the sidelines where she’s been placed, watching silently, with a sullen purse to her lips and a stoic but acute bitterness in her eyes; a certain type that Loki is all too familiar with.

 

Having sampled both flavors, Loki feels as far as the physical goes, both women are not without merit. Amora has the literal body of a goddess, true – all softness and abundance of curves. Lorelei is more slender, lithe like a dancer.

 

Amora smolders with perfect, lust-filled fantasy. Her style is perfume and husky voice and sultry crimson lips.

 

But while Lorelei’s moves are not the same practiced purring assurance, she has a few tricks of her own. Bless her needy little soul, she has a fondness for a riding crop and restraints.

 

Loki has not seen either of them recently, which makes it a puzzle if Amora is responsible for his current state. She’s a vengeful creature, but not a particularly patient one, and if Loki’s done anything to set her off he always knows _exactly_ what. It makes a nagging doubt form that she’s actually involved since he can’t think of a reason for her to do this to him. Or perhaps she merely learned of a new spell and wanted to test it on someone as strong as he is.

 

In any case Loki heads to the tower that she lives in, located far on the edges of the city.

 

Amora seems all too happy to let him in, regarding him with a polished smile and an air of curiosity.

 

“You’re a long way from the palace, my prince.” She leans against the foyer’s doorframe with one arm, acting as though the way she’s positioned so all her angles on are on display is a completely natural accident. Her unbound hair falls in half-curls down to her waist. She wears a flowing dress of white fabric that bears a hint of translucence - not that it needs it, considering how the garment hugs her body, cut low over her bosom and slit all the way up both sides.

 

Loki is accustomed to Amora’s obvious, artful ways, to the point where he can usually ignore her completely, eyeing her coolly with boredom. At the moment however he has to fake that part. She’s presently very distracting.

 

Amora looks on with amused interest, tilting her impeccably painted face.

 

“So what brings you out this far; to my humble abode, to the _pleasure_ of my company?” she asks in a lilting voice.

 

Loki frowns, hesitant. The fact that she’s asking means she almost certainly has nothing to do with it. Amora is glad to take credit for her spells, gleeful and bragging. She wouldn’t act like she has no idea what’s going on.

 

His mouth is dry, however, from the effort of trying not to stare down her top, and before he can swallow some moisture back onto his tongue, Amora speaks.

 

“Wait. There’s something about you.” Her eyes narrow as her brow furrows, only slightly – she’s instinctively inclined against any action that could cause wrinkles. “It’s different.” She’s staring now, taking him in with careful cagy scrutiny. “Is this magic?”

 

“Possibly,” Loki tells her, managing a shrug.

 

He’s actually curious to see what she comes up with. He hadn’t realized his condition had grown so pronounced it was affecting even the way others looked at him.

 

“Pheromones,” Amora deduces, after a moment. “It’s as if they’re pouring off of you.” She arches a brow. “Taking a page from my repertoire, darling?”

 

It’s phrased like a joke, but she can’t conceal the surprise beneath. She knows Loki well enough to be aware he’d never use something blatant as a love charm to get his way.

 

“If it isn’t _you_ , then it probably isn’t magic,” Loki admits, almost sighing. “Apparently I’ve been retaining some stress, and I’m having a disproportionate natural reaction.”

 

Amora’s hand flutters over her mouth as she sniggers. “You mean you’re all hot under the collar.”

 

He lets her know with a glint in his eyes what he’s thinking – that he wants to tear her head off – and she stops immediately.

 

“Well it’s not me, I promise you.” She folds her arms, lips pursed, thinking. “When was the last time you got laid?”

 

Loki _almost_ laughs. “Very recently. It-” his voice nearly cracks as he soldiers on, managing to conceal it. “It wasn’t enough.”

 

He’s starting to despairingly wonder what will _ever_ be enough. What it’ll take to finally sate this hunger he has, throbbing in his temple and stuttering in his heart and burning, _raging_ throughout all the rest of him? When will he again know peace?

 

“Hmm. Oh well. It can happen sometimes,” Amora notes professionally, with her recognizable experience. “Especially to those of us that open ourselves to channeling energy – it makes it easier for the mind to affect the body, and the body to affect the mind. You must have had a _lot_ of stress.”

 

“I have had a very unfortunate month,” Loki tells her in a flat tone.

 

It’s unlucky that, as long as he‘s like this, he doesn’t know that he’ll ever be able to make the apparent source of the problem go away. He should’ve had a plan by now. But how can he stop Thor from ascending the throne when all he can think about is throwing himself at everything that moves?

 

Amora is eyeing him with a calculating expression. She glides towards him, hips swaying hypnotically with every step.

 

Loki doesn’t pull back, allowing himself to be captivated by her scent, to the point where his eyes nearly glaze over, as she walks to him and presses her body into his, a hand going to rest with fingers right below the hollow of his throat.

 

His pulse thuds woodenly, his lips pressing anxiously together in a thin line. Amora arcs her back to gaze deep into his eyes, in the process tilting upward so her bountiful chest brushes against him.

 

Her gown slips, revealing a glimpse of pink nipples beneath. He can feel the curve of her naked leg between his. She’s leaning into his groin. It’s impossible she doesn’t know how hard he is when it’s prodding into her.

 

Loki breathes in to force back a groan.

 

“If you need any help with that,” Amora tells him in a low, sultry voice, lips rising in an offering smirk, “you know that I’m always happy to be of…assistance.” She murmurs, almost a mewing sound, as she reaches to caress the back of his neck, briefly touching his hair. “Don’t you, Loki?”

 

“Oh, I know.” It isn’t a tricky decision, with someone he has experience with and knows how good the pleasure of her thighs is, propositioning him like this. “Yes - I’m well aware.”

 

One hand goes to her waist, the start of her hip. The other lifts to the side of her neck stroking downwards, gliding on skin past the curve of her throat and along her shoulder, until he reaches the strap of her gown.

 

Amora’s eyes burn, wordlessly begging him to undress her. He knows the pliant submission is all an act, but it’s a beautiful one, and somehow that only makes him more aroused.

 

Loki slips a single finger under the fabric, moving the strap down. He starts rocking gently into her, just enough to make her hum.

 

The door opens behind them. Amora turns swiftly – Loki much less so, every movement sluggish as if he is trapped underwater.

 

Lorelei stands there, taking them in with genuinely startled expression. A black braid of a whip hangs in a loop from her belt.

 

“Oh! Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

 

She doesn’t have Amora’s blonde mane – instead her hair is a halo of scarlet fire. Unlike her sister’s diaphanous robes, Lorelei’s clothing is structured, tight, laces going in every direction. Her bodice forces cleavage out of pert breasts that normally might not be able to manage it, pants and boots hugging to accent the shape of her thighs.

 

It’s a bit much. But Loki has to admit, stilettos do amazing things to her legs. Practicing on her was how he learned he could unlace a corset with his teeth.

 

“It’s all right, sister,” Amora replies, soothing on the surface but sharp underneath. “After all, you didn’t know. And, now you do.”

 

Lorelei nods. “I will show myself out.” Her eyes slide to the floor with a prematurely defeated expression.

 

Loki watches the flutter of her hands, the movement of her restless body, remembering the way it feels to have all that energy rutted against him. The satisfaction of peeling her out of those fitted clothes, exposing the willing flesh below, fresh for devouring. The little sounds she makes when she starts to peak, as if her own pleasure scares her – intoxicating, invigorating.

 

Amora is inside his arms, warm and soft. _Want._ Lorelei is close enough he can taste her. _Need._

 

Before he can stop himself Loki is saying, “Or why don’t you join us.”

 

Two pairs of eyes dart to him, startled. For a moment the sisters are identical in the accusing thought behind their faces, clear: _What, I am not enough to please you? You need her too?_

 

But Lorelei is not brave enough to march away or show pride. “I…alright,” she says with feigned casualness, lifting her head up. “If you want.”

 

And Amora will never let on that she feels hurt by rejection. “Come along then,” she says with detached impatience, gesturing with one hand. “If you will.”

 

In the part of Loki’s mind that can still think behind a heavy curtain of lust, he’s aware this is probably a terrible idea. Oh, they’ll play nice for him today, but tomorrow or next week or next month when they dry up and have a chance to properly seethe, they will both be beyond furious at him. He’s tapping into a dangerous sort of jealousy that exists only between women, the kind that leads to insanity, attempts at poisoning and scratched eyes. And they are at the end of the day, sisters – ultimately more likely to turn against him than each other.

 

He should claim that it was all a jest, certainly. Feign a laugh. Tell them they should’ve seen their faces.

 

Instead all Loki does is tell Lorelei to bring the whip.

 

Later, he thinks that was a good decision. When Lorelei has it stretched tight across his neck between both hands, collaring him; she kneels behind him, naked body pressing, grinding. Amora is spread out beneath him, throatily whispering up encouraging entreating words, swiveling her hips as he takes her.

 

All the thoughts inside Loki’s head aren’t words anymore, it’s all noise and color and _demand_ and raw carnal desire.

 

The sisters are experts at sensuality, with thousands of years’ experience. To say they know what they’re doing is delirious understatement. With magic and conniving they lure a man to where he’s most vulnerable and have trained their bodies to be able to _keep_ him there. The pair of them are practically succubae.

 

Still, Loki leaves them both exhausted, albeit extremely satisfied. They doze at opposite ends of the bed, a jumble of boneless limbs and marked skin and stained sheets. Loki lets himself out.

 

As he walks away, head down, and his body begins to one more churn with inevitably rising arousal, he feels only a sense of dull surprise.


	4. Chapter 4

Neither Fandral nor Sif is speaking to him. But the latter no longer behaves in so stilted and jittery a manner though he takes notable pains to avoid being alone anywhere with Loki, and Sif is her usual self save the way she seems these days to pummel her targets at practice with extra aggression.

 

They have both independently seemed to reach the conclusion that what happened betwixt them and Loki is something that is never to be spoken about. He should be relieved about that immensely, but in truth he can barely spare a thought for either of them. Though he _is_ glad that the nature of both incidents made them ones that neither Sif nor Fandral will boast about or discuss with others. It would not go well if the two of them ever ended up comparing notes.

 

There has been no word from Amora or Lorelei, and in this case silence speaks louder and with far more deadly warning. One or maybe both of them together are going to be scheming against him now, desiring to punish him; it’s inevitable. When it comes, it will be anything but pleasant. He should be on his guard and taking steps to get ready. Instead Loki does nothing. He can’t give it any attention.

 

There is room only for two things in his mind. The thrumming, raging, poisonous _need_ in his body to be touched, to be fucked, to be used with unrestrained abandon until he is wet and shaken all over, and his fraught increasingly manic attempts to try finding a way to _rid_ himself of it.

 

It’s early in the evening and Loki sits in a room where half of the court must be assembled. The hum of their chatter and polite laughs is nothing but meaningless noise he can barely hear. He sits turned almost sideways in a stone chair carved into the wall and stares off without truly looking at anything.

 

His lips are chapped red, tender with how he keeps biting between his teeth without thinking, worrying bits of dried skin off each time. His fingers are protected by thin black gloves, but every touch still sends his spine tingling.

 

One elbow on the armrest, his hand props up his head by the underside of his jaw. He keeps himself perfectly, unnaturally still – it’s the alternative to what he really wants to do, for if he begins twitching and fidgeting with all his restless bothered energy, he will _not_ be able to stop. The long fabric of his outer jacket falls across his legs thanks to accidental-looking but in fact very engineered positioning, concealing his half-erect distraction.

 

A short distance away surrounded by fawning women and admiring warriors stands his brother. Thor grins broadly, arrogantly as he gestures, his speech peppered with frequent usage of _“when I am king”_. Normally this would hit Loki like a knife in the back of unease and sharp apprehension. But he gives no pause to worry about Thor. His attentions are on, if not more important, then certainly more _pressing_ matters.

 

Perhaps, he thinks with feverish idleness, in his search so far he’s been putting too much stock in experience. Worldly lovers have done nothing for him, clearly.

 

Technique, after all, is not everything. Sometimes there’s enjoyment to be found in the exploration of new territory.

 

Loki turns his head enough to take in the forms and faces that dot the room, able to pick out a few more familiar from the dull blur of tedious conversation and unaware bodies. His eyes drift at first then focus on the features of a maid in a gown of spring green, with timidly eager eyes and long brown hair.

 

Sigyn is of noble birth and distinguished pedigree, her family having been among those highest at court for as back as any memory cares to travel. Both position and blood make her a perfect candidate for marriage into the royal family, and it’s no secret that Frigga has had an eye on her as a potential match to her younger son for quite some time.

 

And if her parents are interested for the honor and connections, Sigyn like any young woman has allowed herself to anticipate the future for other reasons – she is not _hopelessly_ in love, but it would be fair to say she has nurtured a girl’s innocent if heartfelt crush towards her intended husband.

 

She is fair enough, of middling intelligence with disposition both shy and kind, and though in the flush of womanhood she is much younger than Loki.

 

But he’s aware of his duties as a prince, and also of the fact he could do a lot worse. While he is in no hurry to be tied down, he has no real objections to the possibility. Though they speak rarely outside of official settings Loki has made it a point to distantly observe her and note her actions, her comings and goings. It only makes sense to have awareness of what could be his future wife someday.

 

He knows her fully by observation if nothing else – her nature, her spirit and inclinations.

 

Unaware of his gaze upon her Sigyn carries on her conversation with a pair of nobles, an elder married couple that Loki believes are some friends of her father. Sigyn lets them do most of the talking, yielding to them with deference, but being quick to respond with expectantly prompted.

 

She has trouble meeting their eyes for long periods, not precisely nervous, but very consciously demure. Whether she feels fear or joy she makes no attempts to conceal it, artlessly honest and expressive. Her cheeks turn slightly pink at compliments. Her hands flutter at times as words fly out of her, a light zigzagging path like the flight of a butterfly – but when she notices, she quickly forces them back to her side in a very intentional almost anxious attempt at propriety.

 

Her dress is loose and heavy, concealing all but a hint of the slender curves of her body. She still wears her hair in a braid like a guileless country lass. She has been all her life a lady of the court and she was presented as a woman centuries ago – but she’s without a doubt still a _girl_ , betrayed by the brightness in her pretty eyes and happy curiosity in her voice.

 

Loki looks on at her with a heady, fixated intensity, his eyes wide and unblinking. He imagines what the side of her pale neck must look like, beneath the crisp embroidered fabric of her gown and the curtain of her soft hair. Imagines the way the breath would go out of her in a maiden’s sigh as she was first kissed. The way her body would tremble against his like a nervous colt’s as he slid a hand up the inside of her leg, past her knee.

 

His eyes flashing with dark hunger, Loki doesn’t look away from Sigyn as he slips the fingers of one hand beneath the cuff of another, peeling off his glove. To help it along he distractedly catches the fabric of one finger between his teeth and bites hard.

 

If she is as intact as he suspects, he’ll have to use his tongue on her first – tongue, and maybe slender practiced fingers.

 

His impatience will make it hard to linger on such details but he will endure. The enjoyment of his partner only feeds his, and she should get _some_ pleasure out of it. He is, after all, a gentleman.

 

Loki gets to his feet and makes a swift, straight path over to where Sigyn now stands alone, her former conversation partners having bid her adieu for the night. _Perfect_.

 

Sigyn turns to find Loki standing right there, watching her with amused interest, and she lets out a small startled squawk of alarm.

 

It’s only a little fright, more instinctive. But even that bit of fear is intoxicating to Loki. He swears he can taste it. He’s a predator on the hunt now, savoring every glimpse of his nervous prey as he moves ever closer.

 

Sigyn lowers her eyes immediately, face heating, lashes fluttering. “My lord,” she greets him formally.

 

“My _lady_ ,” Loki greets her, his voice soft with heated fondness. As her gaze rises without her full consent to his face, surprised, he gives her a slow and gracious smile, full of a suitor’s affection. “I could not help noticing you were alone, and thus in need of my company. I hope you do not think it too forward of me to remark I was glad to see it.”

 

“I…” Sigyn’s voice is meek, overwhelmed. Loki has never exchanged any words with her outside those obligated by formality. To find him showing such overt interest is so unexpected, she must wonder if she is dreaming. “I would not think to object to any manner you chose to greet me, my prince.”

 

“To any manner, eh?” Loki cannot resist asking, a harsh chuckle on the edge of words rife with innuendo.

 

Sigyn blinks at him, uncomprehending.

 

Her naiveté is like a drug to him – delicious, exotic for all he is unused to it. He wonders if he’ll be able to feel it against his skin and in his hands and in the back of his throat, the way he’ll most surely feel every _inch_ of her.

 

Loki somehow manages to disguise his thoughts in a sweet gaze – if darkly sweet like honey. With a single finger he taps the underside of her chin, having to set his teeth to fight a shiver even at that little contact. The warmth of her delicate flesh.

 

He carefully forces her head to tilt upwards, eyes half-lidded as they peer deeply into hers as he maneuvers her face to meet his.

 

“Now, now,” he murmurs to her. Loki releases her chin in favor of picking up one dainty, perfectly-formed soft hand, and bringing it to his lips. He presses a kiss to the back that is a fraction too long to be entirely decorous, for he can’t help drinking her in with whatever small amount he can steal. His body cries out with anticipation.

 

“There’s no need for such propriety, wouldn’t you agree? After all, we are both so very fond of one another.”

 

Her eyes light up with such dewy happiness. He wants to crush her mouth to his and steal that blooming taste from her lips.

 

“…Of course,” she manages, in a hopelessly enthused whisper.

 

They speak. Of nothing truly important, but that isn’t the point – the conversation is not the only thing Loki is maneuvering. As minutes go by he finds excuses to lean closer to her, to close the already small distance between them.

 

He reaches to brush strands of her hair from her face, fingers drifting and caressing, eliciting a blush so precious it makes something tighten in his belly. In the back of his mind something is growling demandingly. Before long his hand lingers on her shoulder, on her hip, at one point the curve of a thumb brushing her lower lip.

 

He speaks in whispers, making everything seem more intimate, more centered on her, and she drifts inward in order to hear him. She’s all but wrapped in his arms now. Her eyes are so wide but almost glazed over, practically drunk on rising love. The more lost she gets the more focused Loki becomes, inhaling her scent through his nostrils as he feels his goal coming ever closer. He can think of nothing else.

 

 _I’ll have it. I want it. I need it. I_ need _it._

Before a quarter of an hour has passed, Loki has one arm around her, hand curved to perfectly fit the shape of her shoulder. His chest presses against hers and he can feel just a hint of her breasts as he dips his head forward, speaking so that his lips touch the outer edge of her ear.

 

He remarks that they should go somewhere else, private and not so filled with the thrum of conversation, so they can better talk. Sigyn readily agrees without thinking.

 

Not long after that they are walking through the hallway together. Sigyn’s hand is enclosed within his, Loki stroking her palm with fingertips as he revels in the beat of her pulse. He can sense her nervous excitement at being alone with him this way. They keep talking and he knows she never notices he’s leading her through halls less likely to have guards on duty or even torches lighting them, every step taking them closer to the area of the palace containing his bedchamber.

 

He steals a kiss from giggling, pink-tinted lips. He steals a _gasp_ from her when he kisses again, this one hard enough to bruise, tongue coaxing her mouth to parting beneath his.

 

She gives a tiny surprised moan into his mouth. Her eyes close and Loki pushes a startled but unresisting body into the wall for a more ravenous and thorough embrace.

 

A little more than half an hour later, the door to Loki’s chamber flies open, and Sigyn bursts out.  Her half-laced dress held tight to her by white hands and unbound hair streaming, she flees fast as her feet can carry her, sobbing.

 

It is nothing that Loki has done or said, but her own nature that moves her to distress. Everyone among the gentry has their own level and idea of proper conduct, but Sigyn was raised to believe fully in the rules. It’s perfectly fine for men and women alike to lose their virtue beforehand separately – but a lord and lady _never_ bed each other before they are married. By giving in to Loki’s temptation, she has lost and ruined what for years she has thought was to be her future.

 

Loki lies in his bed still under the blankets with hands folded behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. He can already feel the discordant and frustrating lust returning. The pleasurable value of a plucked maidenhood was for naught.

 

As he waves a hand absently forming a spell to cleanse the blood from his sheets, Loki considers the possibility that he may need to start casting a wider net.


	5. Chapter 5

In Vanaheim, a lord of high standing is out for a ride on his horse through the countryside one grey afternoon, when to his astonishment he happens upon a fair young lady in distress.

 

The maid is soaked to the skin from the cold and the rain. Her filmy dress clings to her milk-white complexion, the spun gold curls of hair half-disheveled.

 

He covers her with his cloak at the shoulders and watches as her delicate shivering body begins to warm itself.

 

Weeping, she relates to him a heart-wrenching tale, of a journey betrayed by a greedy escort, who instead of accompanying her to her final destination decided to rob her instead of all her belongings, and leave her for dead abandoned by the road.

 

The lord, who possesses great wealth and whose estate is the grandest of his part of the realm, is moved by her plight. He offers to carry her on his horse to safety, and lend her money from his own storehouse to finish her travels as well as make up for whatever she has lost.

 

The young woman is beside herself in gratitude. She leans forward to seize the front of his robe in supplication, the fabric of her own garb slipping against the shape of her ample bosom. Against flawless pale skin, her full curving lips and the apples of her cheeks flush pink.

 

Her eyes are the deep and bright green of sea glass. He stares into them and feels lost.

 

In a breathy voice, she begs the lord give leave for her to thank him for his kindness with her body.

 

Overcome by her beauty, the lord consents readily. They couple right there by the wayside and their union is so vigorous and spirited that he falls asleep immediately after.

 

When he wakes, the woman is gone. He can find no sign of her, and none of his vassals report that they are missing such a daughter.

 

Not knowing what else to make of it, the lord shrugs and thinks that if nothing else, the event makes for quite the tale.

 

But he is dismayed when at the end of the week he travels to the mead hall, sits down with three of his fellow lords - each the grandest of his corner of Vanaheim - and all have the exact same story.

 

That same night in Asgard, Loki drinks enough to give himself a splitting blinding headache the next day.

 

As he sits at the table with his shoulders tensed ramrod straight, his tankard clutched tightly in one hand, never speaking a word but staring straight ahead and emptying one drink after another, Thor eyes him from the seat adjacent. At several points he opens his mouth as if to ask Loki something, but always stops himself.

 

Without being fully conscious of it, by the end of the night Thor is leaning away at an angle as if in some attempt to escape the black mood radiating off of his sibling.

 

*

 

The very instant he’s no longer plagued by hangover, Loki is off again, swiftly travelling the winding paths between realms known to him in secret.

 

He is, if possible, more glad than he’s ever before been that he made study of this method of movement when he did. The thought of having to use the Bifrost under the circumstances he finds himself in now, of having to explain to Heimdall why he needs to journey to places other than Asgard…it’s better left unimagined.

 

He pointedly does not allow himself to think that Heimdall may know already – that he may have seen one of the _many_ trysts Loki has had in the past few weeks.

 

The gatekeeper has so much to look out upon. What are the odds he’s glimpsed any of that?

 

Since Vanaheim was a loss, Loki decides to try his luck in Alfheim. If he recalls that realm is in the midst of its greenest spring season, the time when the natives are the most lively and cheerful, and at their friendliest to foreign visitors.

 

By the time the sun is setting on Alfheim, Loki has reduced an entire grotto of elves to languid blissed out creatures, sprawled and swooning across the ground, fervently proclaiming him their new fertility god.

 

But even as some of the first are beginning to stagger to their feet in hopes of giving praise and worship, Loki is halfway to Asgard, still in the process of knotting his belt through the ring.

 

He storms the whole way home, quick steps heavy with frustration.

 

*

 

 _Midgard_ , Loki thinks in feverish desperation.

 

The mortals are numerous and easily-impressed folk that take to sex as keenly as rabbits. In the old days an Asgardian wanting a quick lay often went straight there, knowing with little effort he could find something willing to throw itself upon his prick.

 

Thankfully, though things have indeed changed on their realm through the ages, the inherent nature of mortals hasn’t changed very much.

 

And so night after night Loki takes to the dark lairs within their cities to immerse himself in what’s known as the “party and play scene”.

 

The clubs are filled with bright flashing lights and sticky sweet liquors in as many colors, speech impossible over the pulsating cacophony that claims to be music unless one voices every thought in a scream. Sweat-coated bodies jam against one another, gyrating and bumping but ultimately searching, seeking succor and companionship of the very same type Loki is so anxious for.

 

The crowds are made up of young men with grasping hands and slender bodies that vibrate in time, and women with hungry eyes. Loki greatly dislikes the clothes he sheds his normal familiar layers for here: fabrics snug against his skin like a layer of oil, gaudy in construction - much as it seems to meet with the approval of the other club-goers, their eyes lingering heatedly on his frame. But it’s the fashion, and he doesn’t want to call attention to himself.

 

At least, not attention that leads anywhere but a quick enthusiastic bout of rutting up against a wall.

 

Loki finds no shortage of eager partners, but despite the ease and number of couplings he experiences, it’s still not enough. The mortals themselves are underwhelming, bodies too quick to one with Loki’s long vast repertoire, a mouthful of little besides air to someone craving a feast. A hint of taste and then nothing, gone.

 

The men are giddy, flighty, most of them inebriated by some drug called ‘Ecstasy’. Loki fucks most from behind and he wouldn’t be surprised if afterward, they can’t even recall his face.

 

The women are also intoxicated though their preference seems to be for simple alcohol. They fall on Loki shamelessly, voracious; grins between smeared cosmetics and fingernails scratching, surprised and thrilled to find a male in these settings showing interest in them. But they’re even less inspiring than the men. Though Loki gets something close to real pleasure briefly from a brunette at one venue with crimson lips and a remarkably clever tongue.

 

The nights wear on into morning – each time Loki staggers out, body wearied but the burning need inside of him still not exhausted.

 

Whatever it is he’s looking for, if it’s on Midgard he hasn’t found it yet.

 

Loki trades the tight pants and reflective shirt for a tailored suit jacket with matching trousers, worn over silk with a single button left open to reveal his collarbone, and abandons the neon and darkness for a different sort of club.

 

Here the music is subtle, the lights warm and relaxing. Well-dressed mortals lounge in chairs and leather-coated booths, chatting with the polished indifference of the jaded, practiced superior. Trying to act as if they’re here for some other reason than finding somebody to go home with.

 

Loki purchases a cocktail with illusionary money, paying as much as a middle class family might for an entire meal. Mortals do love their _hierarchies_ , he thinks _._ Anything offering the opportunity to show off.

 

He takes in the room at a glance and immediately gravitates towards a man in an expensive yet casual suit, sitting at one end of the bar.

 

Loki can’t recall the name but he knows the face, vaguely, from the tabs he’s been keeping on this realm. Wealthy, powerful, with a certain _reputation_ – every woman in the room is staring at him longingly, and a few of the men.

 

But the mortal is alone at present, having sent away any that would try to keep him company, enough that others are reluctant to approach.

 

Picking up his glass in one hand Loki walks straight to him, settling on the barstool to his left.

 

“Buy you a drink?” Loki asks with no preamble, adjusting his position comfortably so he’s hovering right on the edge of the man’s personal space.

 

The mortal’s eyes slide to him, surprised but not necessarily displeased. He blinks exactly once before remarking, “Usually that’s my line.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. How untoward of me.” Loki takes him in: tanned skin, toned body, dark hair, a trimmed goatee and mustache. Eyes that seem clever and perceptive enough, now that they’re focused on something.

 

There’s something about this mortal that hums promisingly from every muscle, every flicker of a gesture. It gives Loki great hope.

 

He twirls the little spear from his drink between two fingertips then places it in his mouth to pluck the olive off with his teeth, smirking as he finishes what he was saying. “I’ll have to find some way of making it up to you.”

 

A muscle in the man’s jaw twinges with an almost-smile. “Hm. Maybe. If you think you could.”

 

“I _know_ that I could.” Loki releases the spear from his fingers, holding it in his mouth by tongue alone, lips moving to briefly display a dexterous curve. The man’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly.

 

He can tell the mortal is amused at being so aggressively hit on by another man – even the hedonistically wealthy have their standards for what is publically “appropriate” – but not repulsed. A good sign. In Loki’s experience, the privileged are usually up for anything at least once.

 

The mortal takes a sip from his own glass: something dark, ice clinking when he moves it. He considers Loki with open scrutiny. “That’s quite the accent you’ve got there, it’s very…what is that, English? Maybe a little more exotic, further north. Icelandic? Scandinavian, maybe?”

 

“I’m not from around here,” Loki replies smoothly. “Then again, neither are you.”

 

“Way to state the obvious,” the mortal quips, unfazed by Loki’s evasiveness. “So what brings you here then? Obviously not business. You wouldn’t be here at this place if it was. Guess this must be the sort of thing you do for pleasure?”

 

“I do all sorts of things for pleasure,” Loki tells him, knowing it’s the obvious response, but unable to resist being handed so perfect an opportunity.

 

Sure enough, the mortal gives a slight smirk of his own, having expected him to say that. “Be honest with me. Because I really am curious. Are you always this forward?”

 

Loki tilts his head and dips his eyes, humming absently. “Wouldn’t it flatter your ego more if I said that I wasn’t?”

 

“Touché.” The man sips his drink again and Loki follows his example. Even alcohol this strong is nothing to his constitution, but he has a feeling this one will be more forthcoming if he believes they’re both drunk. “So. Got plans for the evening?”

 

Despite having just taken a drink Loki’s voice is hoarse, husky when he answers, “Working on it.”

 

“I see. Well. I’m supposed to be in New York at seven in the morning, that’s…” the mortal glances at his wristwatch, tugging back his sleeve, “five hours, _so_.” His mouth crinkles, thinking. “I’ll probably leave in about three hours or so, get there by ten. Yeah. That’ll be perfect.”

 

“New York? My, what a coincidence,” Loki says effortlessly. “I’m heading there myself.”

 

“Huh? Oh yeah.” The other makes a sound that is not quite a chuckle. “I’ll just _bet_ you are.”

 

Loki gives no reply to that. He only remains where he is, perfectly still, a faint smile on his face as he stares with dark and meaningful gaze into the other man’s eyes. His legs crossed, one foot bounces, ankle rotating so as to just graze across the other’s shoe, in a way that could be easily pardoned as accident.

 

He feels the subtle thrill of victory as the breath catches for a fraction in the other man’s throat. He watches him swallow, releasing it.

 

“Tell you what,” he says to Loki. “I’ll give you a lift.”

 

“How kind of you,” Loki murmurs.

 

“Let’s have another drink first.” It isn’t really a suggestion – he’s already gesturing at the bartender. “Great thing about personal aircraft, you know, you can leave whenever you like.”

 

They work their way swiftly through two cocktails each before finally getting up. Loki keeps a calculating eye on him as they make their way to his car – walking a perfectly straight line, even though Loki can feel his head swimming with the alcohol. An experienced drinker; good. That makes it unlikely he’ll turn sloppy during the act.

 

The man waves at his driver. “To the jet, Happy, and don’t – tell the girls their services won’t be required, for this trip. I’m uh, I’m not in the mood.”

 

The driver’s sight drifts knowingly to Loki. “Taking in an in-flight movie this time, huh boss? Sure.”

 

By the time they’re in the air, both Loki and the mortal have removed their jackets. The man has settled on the couch in the middle of the cabin nursing yet another drink.

 

Loki plucks a bottle from the open bar and makes a point to take a long elegant swig directly from it, placing it down and then adding a feigned stumble, before righting himself on the pole that for some reason is in the center of the floor.

 

He hooks one foot around the base and spins in a graceful half-circle, letting go to drop on the seat right next to his host. Loki slides one arm across the cushion just behind his head, fingers grazing his hair, leaning back so their sides are touching. He smirks at him.

 

The man’s expression is momentarily unreadable. “I know how this is gonna sound, me being who I am, but I don’t normally do this sort of thing,” he notes. “At least not with…with someone like you.”

 

Loki reaches to unfasten the second button of his own shirt, then the third. “I’m flattered.”

 

“You should be,” the man says, earnestly. Then he lets Loki shut him up with a kiss.

 

His mouth is wet and warm in the most perfect way, tasting bitterly of the liquor he was just consuming. His facial hair prickles against Loki’s skin, and he’s aggressive and rough as he kisses back in a manner that isn’t at all unwelcome.

 

He tugs Loki’s collar aside so he can move his mouth to Loki’s skin instead, right at where shoulder meets throat, and he uses his tongue and his teeth. Loki’s head tilts back, eyes closed as he makes a sound of pleasure. His fingers go to clench tightly between the man’s hair at the back of his head.

 

He revels in the heat and weight of the other’s body, his smaller but compact frame already rubbing softly against him.

 

The scent of desire and arousal is sharp in the air. This mortal is no stranger to seduction. He smells like cologne, influence, and machinery. If _math_ has a smell, then he smells like that as well.

 

Loki helps him remove the shirt completely, fabric impatiently tugged when it catches on his arms, threatening to tear. His back arcs as he surrenders ever further to the embraces.

 

The mortal presses more kisses and teeth and expert caresses with his tongue on other areas of Loki’s torso – on his pectoral just above his heart, around one nipple, low on the muscles of his abdomen just beside his navel.

 

Loki feels himself burning with the sheer fire of his want. His body tingles as sparks of current race through him, illuminating every sensation. It’s excellent, almost painful.

 

 _Oh, you’re good_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. Words are beyond him at the moment.

 

He plants his hands on the mortal’s shoulders, pushing him back. He starts unbuttoning the other’s shirt, soothing away his sudden odd reluctance with nips along his jawline, drawing from him a gorgeous throaty wince.

 

He stops once the clothing is removed and tossed to join his own in the rumpled pile on the floor of the airplane. He stares curiously at the glowing fixture revealed in the center of the other man’s chest.

 

“I promise it doesn’t burn,” the man quips after a silent pause, his voice quiet and almost feeble.

 

Loki traces the edge of it with careful fingers, an equal mixture of soothing and exploratory. If only he wasn’t so fixated on physical longing right now, he would examine this with greater focus, surely. He can feel the energy, the power it holds beading against his skin. He notes too, the dark lines leeching out from it into the mortal’s body – in his veins all the way up to his neck. _Poison_ , he thinks, but nothing that he’ll catch from being with him, and so far it doesn’t seem to have slowed him down too much.

 

Right now it’s all that Loki cares about. He licks the pad of his thumb purposefully, making a circle around the very center of the glow. The mortal draws a breath, shuddering.

 

Loki presses a hand to either side of his waist, one going to his hip, as he leans forward to kiss him deeply. Ravishing his mouth.

 

“You know,” the mortal remarks in a wistful tone, when Loki pulls back for air, “it’s my birthday in a couple months.”

 

“It is really?” Loki replies. With pliant fingers he unfastens the other’s belt. “Then allow me to give you an early present.”

 

He drops to the carpeted floor and then, judging from the look on the mortal’s face, he gives him the most spectacular blowjob he’s ever had.

 

After he finishes, Loki swallows, daintily removing the small amount of saliva and silvery residue from his lips with a brush of his fingertips. He crawls back up onto the sofa, staring at him fixatedly.

 

“My turn,” he informs the mortal.

 

It’s a miracle he still even has what passes for self-control, he craves it all so badly. The sounds and expression the man made when he came was an aphrodisiac Loki’s body didn’t even _need_.

 

The mortal’s pupils are blown, mouth hanging open slightly. It takes him a moment to comprehend what Loki says and then another to attempt righting himself.

 

“Give…gimme a second,” he manages, flustered. “Do you mind if I use my hands, because I’m not very good at…it’s nothing personal, really, I just-”

 

“No,” Loki cuts him off, in a hard voice of command that permits no argument. “That isn’t what I mean. I want you to _take_ me.” He cups the other’s thigh. “Please,” he adds almost as an afterthought.

 

“…Seriously?” The man’s mouth gapes for a bit, before he swiftly shuts it. “Uh. Okay. But that’s going to take a minute or two. Need some recovery time,” he laughs breathlessly. “I mean, I’m good, but even I’m not _that_ good.”

 

Loki has no patience for his human limits – he curls his fingers against his naked back, and uses magic to transfer some of his arousal to him. He certainly has _plenty_ to spare.

 

The man gives a shuddering gasp as he feels it surge through him; the driven energy of purest desire. He curses.

 

“You didn’t slip me a Viagra mickey, did you? Not that I’m complaining, exactly, but that…this _never_ happens.”

 

Loki caresses the side of his throat. “Pheromones,” he explains glibly, a wicked grin on his face. “Mine are just that good.”

 

“I guess,” the other says incredulously, clearly not believing him, but not caring about an explanation anymore. He stands with Loki’s arms still wrapped around him. As they both stumble to the bed they tear at each other, removing the rest of their clothes and groping almost hard enough to bruise.

 

 _Yes, yes, yes._ A primal howl builds from Loki’s throat and he smothers it, crushing his face in a hard bite down on the mortal’s shoulder. The back of his legs hit the bed and he falls onto it, breath knocked out of him.

 

The mortal has retrieved a small bottle from the nearby dresser and he applies the slick contents all over his hand. Seizing the back of Loki’s calf muscle he expertly pulls his leg up, gentle, then crouches down to slip his fingers inside, preparing him. He presses in an almost curious manner.

 

 _“Oh.”_ Loki squeezes his eyes shut, panting between bared teeth. The mortal keeps teasing him, providing these spikes of pleasure without any friction. It’s _maddening._ “Hurry it up,” he begs. “It’s almost – I _can’t_ -”

 

The other takes an appraising look at Loki’s cock, erection throbbing painfully. “Yeah, no kidding,” he observes. “You want it, don’t you? You want it real bad.”

 

When Loki doesn’t say anything, too overcome to speak, all but writhing, he removes his fingers which somehow makes it even _worse_. “Say it.” He stands, gazing down at Loki with a heated expression. “If you want it so much, then tell me.”

 

Thousands of years or even a few weeks ago, Loki would have struck him down with the most horrible curse he could think of for such galling impudence.

 

Now, instead, all he can do is lay there, sweating and shivering, head lolling. _So close. Just give it…give it to me. Want. Need. Want…_

 

“Yes,” he breaks out, “yes, _please_. I-I want it, I…I _need_ it! Go on already! _Now!_ ”

 

At the tail end of his desperate cry the mortal at last comes forward. He reaches for Loki’s waist and Loki twists, rolling over, managing to push himself up onto his knees so he’s in better position to assist as the man enters him.

 

He doesn’t bother closing his mouth, breath coming in a rasp as the mortal thrusts in halfway, experimentally.

 

“You like that?” the mortal asks, not giving the point up.

 

“I do. I like that,” Loki agrees readily, needy. “ _More_.”

 

To his indescribable relief the man keeps going, rocking against him now as he begins to fuck him in a steady motion. His hands go to Loki’s ribs just below his chest but they inevitably slide down to grasp his hips securely. One remains there while the other moves to Loki’s cock, the same lubricated hand that probed inside of him gripping around his shaft.

 

Dazedly Loki thinks he must work with his hands a lot – he’s fairly certain he feels calluses.

 

The mortal continues to exert both with his cock and with his hand. Loki pulls tight against him, making small encouraging sounds.

 

He presses his own hands flat to the bed’s surface, sinking downward to rest the weight of his upper body on his elbows, his partner swearing passionately as Loki’s body moves into an angle allowing him to penetrate deeper.

 

“God,” he moans. “Oh _god_.”

 

“You have no idea,” Loki means to say, but all that comes out is a keening, blissful groan.

 

He can’t speak. He can’t think. He can taste sweat and liquor and the slightest bit of cum and the sheer _lust_ that hangs in the air. Every inch of him is stained with sexual desire and it’s more than he can bear. His knees move back and forth, allowing himself to be fucked harder, faster. He can barely feel the hand working him off anymore - all he can feel is how _ready_ he is, how much he _wants_.

 

He comes with a choking gasp, half his muscles tightening as the others go slack. He manages not to collapse because the mortal isn’t there yet, still going.

 

Body numb even with someone still inside him, tingly all over with afterglow and hazy pins and needles feeling in his limbs, Loki’s gaze drifts distractedly to the ceiling and he discovers there’s a mirror there.

 

His eyes meet those of his reflection and he quickly looks away, not liking what he sees.

 

He looks almost…bored.

 

Even as the mortal finishes, body smacking into Loki’s from behind as he slumps forward, satisfied, Loki already knows.

 

It was rough and heady. It was drawn-out and taunting. It was fantastic.

 

It _still_ wasn’t enough.

 

Loki exchanges a few detached, muttered words with the mortal and then moves aside to let him crawl into the bed. He waits until after he falls asleep.

 

Then without bothering to retrieve his clothes, his disappears – never mind that they’re in a plane in the middle of its flight. Let the human come to whatever conclusion suits his sanity.


	6. Chapter 6

Loki allows himself a few days’ rest, in order to give the bruises and scratches still marking his body from all his many energetic partners time to heal.

 

It’s incredibly difficult to even restrain himself by that much but he doesn’t really have a choice. He still burns, still consumed by desire, and it would not be a good idea if whoever he undresses for next can see the signs of previous lovers still lingering like trophies, like names carved into a tree.

 

Though in truth it’s becoming so hard to remember the importance of _restraint_. Of appearances.

 

And if things keep up like this, if Loki cannot uncover a way to cure himself of this malady, even what few precautions he has the remaining good sense to take will not matter.

 

At this rate, he may very well fuck his way through all of Asgard. He’s already running out of ideas for suitable partners.

 

It’s all he can do not to cast about desperately, hands grabbing the first body he comes to and dragging it off to a decent corner.

 

Rudimentary preparations are being made for Thor’s coronation – it will be a grand affair, months long in the making. With signs of these foundations appearing, the heir strides up and down the halls with an insufferable grin upon his face, carrying himself with even more confidence and boisterous swagger than usual.

 

The window is closing. Loki should have decided what he was doing weeks ago; he should be putting subtle machinations into play now. He had some vague idea of a plan once that was beginning to come into being – something about tricking Thor into attacking denizens of another realm for a perceived offense. But it’s lost now, forgotten, his clever thoughts eaten up by the tingling in his nerves and the boiling demand for sex in his blood.

 

Before long he’ll have no chance of stopping the ceremony by anything short of an impulsive outburst, maybe setting another part of the palace on fire.

 

Loki should be scheming, watching, lying in wait as he approaches Thor’s inevitable and necessary downfall.

 

Instead he twists in his bed groaning, eyes squeezed hopelessly shut, driven to madness as he claws at his own head and his back spasms and he silently pleads with whatever force in the universe deigns to listen to have mercy on him.

 

He lasts three days – barely. He craves another’s touch so bad, he cannot understand how others go on with their lives seamlessly around him, completely oblivious to his state.

 

But as unbelievable as it seems, Loki is still very glad for the complete lack of notice, as he begins looking for yet one more to coerce into bed.

 

In truth, he’s forgotten about Thor’s coronation and his need to waylay it completely. He can barely even recall that he started this ‘mission’ with the intent to work the kinks out of his system. He can’t really think in straight lines anymore. His entire brain is caught up as the rest of him is, focusing only on the animal need within him and the act by which he can find release.

 

Feeling like a drowning man, he doesn’t know how it is he finds himself walking down the halls of the palace, fully clothed in his regalia with hands behind him, back straight and his head held high. All he wants to do is slump against the wall and feel the cooling presence of the stone on his feverish skin. He can’t hear anything over the insistent thrumming of his libido.

 

_Want it. Find it. Must have it. Need need need._

Somehow, he keeps walking. Somehow, he finds himself down by the weaponry storage, in a room where his brother and their companions are known to linger.

 

No one is there at present. Save one. A single warrior – Hogun.

 

Alone, his back almost completely to the entryway, he turns a mace in his hands and polishes between the spikes with a stern eye and a practiced touch.

 

‘The Grim’, they call him, probably because ‘Hogun the Boring’ or ‘Hogun the Uptight’ is no fitting name for a warrior of Asgard. If anyone is almost as likely to be accused of frigidity as Loki himself, it’s Hogun. He doesn’t boast or carry on like the others.

 

But he’s still put in his due, enough for his fellows to know – and Loki as well – that he’s still alive in there underneath his armor. That though he thinks the first place a warrior belongs is the battlefield, he still knows his way around the bedroom.

 

Loki presses his back to the corner, hiding himself in the shadows, tongue flicking out briefly to touch dry lips as he considers. He watches Hogun unobserved.

 

He scrutinizes Hogun’s face. It’s not a bad face, really. All but hairless with a chiseled jaw, sloping nose beneath a tightly-knit brow, that meets together above eyes as dark and round as the pits of ripened fruit. Black locks bound tightly to reveal a sinewy neck. His body is slight but compact, as much muscle as can be packed onto a small but sturdy frame.

 

Who knows: under his humorless exterior Hogun could be full of surprises. Maybe once the veneer is peeled away with his mail there’s a hidden treasure trove of carnality and passion beneath. Loki’s seen the type before. He allows himself to imagine, to fantasize really, the types of things Hogun might be capable of with those practiced hands.

 

Loki can feel the cold sweat beading along his spine as he leans forward to continue watching, one hand and the side of his face against the arch of the doorway.

 

 _Why not, really,_ he thinks with as much dismissal as desperation. He’s been with just about everyone else. And his bar needs to be lowered a bit more before he takes interest in ruining Volstagg’s marriage.

 

He pushes himself away from the wall and glides forward, sauntering down the steps.

 

Hogun’s eyes glance up at the sound of his footsteps, just long enough to take in the fact that it’s Loki and dismiss him, going right back to what he was looking at before.

 

“What do you want, Trickster?” The warrior’s voice is blunt, if not outwardly hostile.

 

A lifetime of practice at smiling when he feels hollow inside, at staying silent when he seethes with rejection and anger, is the only foundation Loki has to cling to when if he gave in his body would start outwardly trembling. He fashions his expression into an aloof mask. He clasps his hands together behind his back in a picture of carelessness – when in truth he clutches them in a grip tight enough to give him white knuckles.

 

“Such a question, Hogun,” he remarks. He strides the length between the bottom of the stairs and the other man, swaying to one side in his path so as to move in an arc alongside before inevitably circling himself in closer.

 

“What do I want?” he muses out loud. “Hm.” He smiles at Hogun, something approaching his usual look of mischief. “What is it that you think?”

 

“I could not even begin to imagine,” Hogun responds woodenly. He still doesn’t look up, hands moving in a circular pattern around the very base of the mace’s handle in a way that Loki in his arousal finds difficult to watch. “The way that _your_ mind works, is a mystery to everyone but yourself.”

 

“That’s so, is it?” Loki says enticingly. “Would you like me to let you in, Hogun? Give you a glimpse at what no else knows?”

 

Hogun stops his actions, eyes flicking up to meet his.

 

“No,” he responds, flat.

 

Loki frowns, scathed by the brushoff. He leans forward, speaking in a low and dark hiss. “I’ll tell you anyway,” he murmurs.

 

“What I’m thinking about right now, is all sorts of dark deeds.” His voice husky he peers at Hogun with a fixated gaze, eyes wide and unblinking. His lips move slowly, purposefully, as if hesitant to release every syllable until it’s been fully ravished by the meaningful tones of his voice. “Lurid and sensual. Sounds, and smells, and tastes. All the ways that two bodies can be made to entangle.”

 

Hogun does look at him then. He pulls back enough to sheath his weapon, his mouth a pucker of disapproval.

 

“You should keep that to yourself,” he advises Loki.

 

“Oh, but Hogun,” Loki says, chin tilting up as he smiles, eye half-lidding. “Why should I?” He reaches a hand forward, going in to caress along one cheekbone. “When I would much rather be sharing it with you.”

 

Loki trails his touch in a glide down the underside of Hogun’s throat to the very edge of his breastplate, the buckle where chest meets collar.

 

He doesn’t get any further – the instant the sound of Loki’s voice fades from the air, Hogun slaps him in a revolted backhand across the face, a single hard swing of pure force.

 

Loki falls back a half-stumble, the blow stinging across his skin. _Too much_ , he realizes in an instant. _Mistake_.

 

Maybe he should have played it out differently, taking his time. Maybe he should have gone for a more subtle approach. Or maybe he should have never gone for Hogun at all; finally having crossed paths with one who simply refuses to be seduced by the likes of him.

 

But Loki has lost the patience for subtlety, the ability to be charming and play it coy. Driven by lust his only tactic left is to throw himself brazenly towards any target, with all the finesse left of one turned mad by a more natural form of hunger.

 

It seems, at last, this is catching up with him.

 

Loki lifts his gaze back to Hogun, hand still cupping his own cheek. He isn’t bleeding which is all he really cares about.

 

Hogun stands perfectly still, eyes bright with disbelief and indignation, breathing heavily in and out thru his nose. No – this is one would-be partner that’s truly a lost cause. For that more than the physical injury Loki feels aggravated.

 

And then things somehow manage to get worse.

 

There is a sound, from two places at one – there are four sets of steps leading down to the floor of the room, one from at each corner, and Loki looks up to find the pair in front of him both occupied, one by Fandral and the other by Sif.

 

Both of them hesitate, mid-step, stopped dead in their tracks as they stare down at him and Hogun. There’s no doubt that they both entered in time to see his rebuffed pass.

 

Unaware of each other at first, they both make a sound. Fandral clears his throat in a manner that seems mechanic, instinctive, while Sif breathes in just a few notes short of a gasp.

 

Instantly their heads turn, eyes flying to meet those of the other. And they take in in a wordless second, by the shocked width of both their gazes and the color in their cheeks, a horribly perfect understanding of how alike they are in their reactions, and what must be the reason _why_.

 

Fandral quickly looks away, head dropped towards his toes and face flushing. Sif’s expression breaks apart, aghast, and then quickly rebuilds itself in a look of rage.

 

Loki lowers his hand and manages to stand straight again, squaring his shoulders as the pair of them approach. Sif and Fandral reach the floor and position themselves closer to Hogun but away from each other – and even further away from Loki.

 

Hogun stays back, silently eyeing his two comrades with a sharp questioning look.

 

Fandral says nothing, but his eyes are hurt and deeply offended. Sif draws her shoulders tight, head lifting as she pins Loki with a disgusted glower.

 

“You should have just said that you were working your way through all of us,” she spits at him, short.

 

He really has nothing to say to that. He stands there, the intense quiet stretching on longer and longer, as Hogun and Fandral and Sif all stare at him demandingly.

 

He should stay. He should stay, and try to explain, or at least find some way of making amends or excuses, so that they don’t all come around to completely _hating_ him. But he can’t. He can’t think – more to the point, he doesn’t _want_ to.

 

He needs. And there is nothing he can get from this room but words and anger – nothing here can help him, can give him what he’s longing for. He sees no point in wasting his time. Not when every second he has to live without satisfaction means persistent agony.

 

So Loki pivots around on one heel, and leaves them all without a single word.

 

He retreats to his chambers, locks himself within and doesn’t come out again.

 

But by late that night he is beside himself. He can’t _wait_ any more.

 

He transforms to feminine guise, raven-haired and buxom, comely features not unlike his natural ones but shifted just _so_ to guarantee no one will suspect or recognize him. He changes his well-known emerald eyes to colorless slate grey.

 

With silent and hidden footsteps he makes his way straight to the barracks: to the compartment where returning soldiers retire to disarm themselves and remove their uniforms, knowing that a patrol has just come in for the night.

 

The men are gruff, hardened – some are young, some are older, some are passing close to handsome and some much less so. Loki barely looks at their faces. He is too focused on their bodies, which look ready to him, in all their varying states of undress.

 

They all stare in astonishment at the long-haired woman in the thin white gown that is waiting for them, a beseeching and lusty smile upon her face.

 

“What is _this?_ ” one of the men questions – possibly their captain, or perhaps simply the most outspoken among their number. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

 

“Why, I am a passing lady of the evening,” she replies to him in a melodious, sweetly sultry tone. “Here to peddle my wares where I know they well be well received and appreciated.”

 

Some of the soldiers chuckle in low disbelief, overwhelmed by this strange and sudden fanciful luck.

 

“Is this a _joke?_ ” one asks suspiciously.

 

“Is it someone’s birthday?” another wonders.

 

She gestures with bare arms. “All I ask is a single silver coin from each of you. That much and no more, and you will be satisfied. I give my guarantee.”

 

A few of the men mutter at that, eyes narrowing in doubtful reluctance. A silver coin would buy a bed and night’s meal at an inn out in the countryside, but here in the gleaming capital at the very heart of Asgard, any harlot who only costs that much is likely to be missing half her teeth and give you a disease on top of it.

 

“That seems awfully…cheap,” one blunt fellow says.

 

Her eyes narrow, glinting, and she smiles as her hands go to the belt around her waist.

 

“Consider it my act of charity, for the brave and able-bodied men who serve our kingdom,” she says, lips parting in a predatory grin.

 

The soldiers are hot and on edge from a day’s riding, and right in front of them is a half-naked nymph. It takes very little to persuade them.

 

Just enough discipline holds that they form a single line, with minimal amount of jostling and stepping on toes.

 

There is no privacy, but that does nothing to abate the enthusiasm of a single one of them. Some are more paranoid than others and prefer to fuck her mouth or her ass, but she is true to her word. Every one of them who parts with a silver coin from his thick fist leaves her company satisfied. A few even come back for seconds.

 

She leaves them in the early hours as dawn is beginning to sneak over the horizon, pulling a hood over her head and turning invisible once she is out of their sight.

 

Morning is threatening to turn into afternoon before Loki wakes again, in his own bed and in his own body, managing to pry his eyes open thickly from where he lays sprawled on his stomach, not sure if he can move his limbs.

 

Every muscle has been used and aches for it, every inch of skin pulled just about every which way. Slowly the events of the night previous return to him, no longer clouded by the heady fever of lust but clear and sharp as crystal in the light of day.

 

A numb disbelief threatening to swallow him, Loki reaches with one shaky hand for the sack that he finds lying on the floor next to his bed, dropped carelessly there on his return.

 

The cord slides open and dozens of silver coins spill out across the floor.

 

Loki stares at them where they sparkle accusingly, the cold and undeniable proof of what he has done. The reality sinks in, tearing like a knife.

 

There is something terribly, horribly _wrong_ with him.


	7. Chapter 7

Loki stays in his chambers the entire afternoon. He barely even leaves his bed.

 

He summons a servant to bring him a basin, cloths and a pitcher full of cold water.

 

Trying to wash by himself in his room without disturbing anything is a troublesome task, but he doesn’t dare return to the bathhouse. He makes do.

 

Alone and completely silent, half the illumination off in his chamber, he scrubs until he feels clean, pale skin threatening to turn pink from his efforts. He removes all the lingering physical traces of his night, and leaves his flesh feeling numb from the icy water.

 

He can still feel it though. The fever, the desire coursing through him. Even after what lengths he’s been debased to, it still hasn’t stopped.

 

It’s what possibly makes him feel sickest of all.

 

He dries his hair with a towel and makes a halfhearted attempt at combing it. When he dresses again it’s in all black, from his neck down to his ankles. The only thing he leaves off are his boots. He climbs back onto his bed and lays down in repose on his back, hands folded over his stomach, staring blindly at the ceiling.

 

It’s almost as if he’s in mourning. In a way he supposes he is: for his sanity, or perhaps just his self-respect.

 

His body feels hot, itchy. Swarming with physical longing. Loki stays where he is and refuses to let himself move. He tries desperately to think.

 

If this isn’t a spell, and it isn’t stress…he must be _ill_. It would seem comical, to think there exists some unknown disease that causes a man’s sexual urges to be thrown out of control – it sounds like the punch-line to a particularly bad joke told by the Warriors Three. But after having experienced it Loki knows there is nothing funny about this situation at all.

 

It isn’t just the near pain, the unending mental and physical distraction. It’s the things it’s driven him to do. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

 

He’s ruined what precious few friendships that he has. He’s painted a target on his back for two vengeful sorceresses. He’s completely destroyed whatever chance he had of one day being married to Lady Sigyn.

 

He let himself be the submissive to a mortal.

 

He thought he only played the role of a common whore – but instead, he’s becoming one.

 

He needs to make this go away. He needs to _stop_. But he doesn’t think he can; he doesn’t know how. Something is wrong but he doesn’t know what and he has no idea how to go about fixing it.

 

Loki tries to ignore the heat steadily emanating from the rest of him, the urge to fidget and rub. Part of his hair falls over his forehead into his eyes and he can feel strands sticking to the back of his neck. His collar is too stiff. His laces are too tight, his buttons feel repressive.

 

He’s sick to his stomach. Everything that he’s put himself through and his body still hungers for sex. His disgust and exhaustion at war with and unable to keep his depraved libido down. This has gone far past annoyance, and now he’s starting to gradually become terrified.

 

Maybe he’s dying. In the face of everything else, it would almost be a welcome reprieve.

 

He listens to the sound of his own breathing, the heady stillness broken only by his door being thrown open with a crash.

 

Loki squeezes his eyes shut, briefly. On top of all his miseries, he’s neglected for days to refresh the series of spells cast over the door meant to maintain his privacy.

 

“Go away, Thor,” he whispers, not having to look at the intruder to know without a doubt who it is. “Whatever it is I am not in the mood.”

 

Thor is frowning as he comes to the bedside, looming over him as he stares down. His face is dark but mostly just confused.

 

“What have you done, Loki?” he demands. “The only one of our friends who isn’t uneasy is Volstagg, and whenever I ask the others what is wrong, they refuse to tell me. Instead they only point the finger in _your_ direction. What treacherous mischief have you been playing at now?”

 

Loki stifles a groan. “I will not tell you either, brother. It’s none of your business.” He presses a hand over his eyes – Thor turned on the rest of the lights when he entered and it seems far too bright now. “Suffice to say it is nothing you need concern yourself about.”

 

The others will fume about Loki but eventually they will get over it. And if they carry any grudges after, it will only be at _him_. Their friendship with their future king need not suffer.

 

He rolls over onto his side, away from Thor’s direction, and half-curls in on himself. The coolness and softness of his sheets and pillows send a maddening tingling through his little exposed skin.

 

His brother smells like the rest of the palace – perfume and life – and he tries not to breathe it in too much, lest he be tempted back out there and into more self-destructive behavior.

 

Thor seems to mull his response over for a few moments. Finally he says, “If it comes to it, you’ll make amends? I will not have things torn apart because of you.”

 

“If at all I can,” Loki murmurs, still not looking at him. “Now go. Leave me be. Please, I beg of you.”

 

“Are you alright?” Thor asks bewildered, at last noticing his state. “You seem…out of sorts.”

 

No wonder he’s puzzled. The common malady would be an excessive night of drinking – but Loki has not been in the mead hall for days, the feel of bodies pressed so close to him on the benches far too much to cope with. The only other guess would be illness, but even by Asgardian standards Loki has excellent health, and he shows no obvious symptoms…not ones that Thor would notice, anyway.

 

 _I am very far from alright,_ Loki thinks to himself miserably, but like always as he suffers he swallows it and lies right to his brother’s face.

 

“I just want to be left alone, that’s all.”

 

But Thor has picked the worst possible time to have grown a sense of observation. “You haven’t been acting right,” he insists. “Even for you. If something is wrong, my brother, I wish that you would tell me.”

 

Loki knows better than to think stony silence will be enough to get Thor to give up and walk away. He keeps his back to him, but lifts his head and turns his neck just enough to meet his eyes.

 

“Can…can I ask you something?” he begins, almost timid with genuine, fervent curiosity. “Was there ever a time when you…” He trails off, tongue turning leaden as he struggles to find the least humiliating way to say it.

 

“When I what?” Thor repeats, blankly.

 

Loki swallows, eyes darting away for a moment. “Besides when we were much younger, of course, just becoming men, can you ever remember if you had a time when no matter what you did you couldn’t stop…couldn’t stop thinking about…”

 

Again his voice fails him. He can barely meet Thor’s gaze without feeling his cheeks threaten to burn.

 

There is some mercy to be had, after all – somehow Thor followed what he was saying. His older brother blinks a few times as he thinks about it. Then he gives a meaningful grin, nodding.

 

“About five hundred years ago. When Lord Aegir brought his youngest daughter to court and presented her.” Thor chortles lustfully at the memory.

 

Loki only partially represses his sigh. “But the week _after_ that,” he questions, tiredly, “when you had successfully gotten her into your bed and your hands on her large bosom – did you still feel the same way?”

 

Thor frowns again. “No,” he replies. “Why do you ask?”

 

Loki shakes his head. “It’s not important.” He sits up, leaning on one hand as he presses the other over part of his face. “I just…never mind. It’s nothing.”

 

Thor considers him. “Are you sure that nothing’s wrong?” he presses as gingerly as in his nature he is capable of.

 

“I believe that I may be unwell,” Loki mumbles. He stares ahead without looking at anything as he says it. “But there’s nothing you can do for me. By all means, go about your day.”

 

Thor eyes him silently for a few moments more, before leaving without another word.

 

In the wake of his exit Loki flops down on his stomach and tries without any success to sleep.

 

When next his door opens, it’s much more gently. Loki’s eyes fly open in horror as he recognizes the quiet sound of his mother’s gown trailing against the floor.

 

“Loki? Are you awake, my son?”

 

“Whatever Thor told you, there’s no need at all to concern yourself,” he says quickly – much too quickly – without moving.

 

He can hear the frown in her voice when she speaks. “He’s worried about you. And frankly, so am I.” Her fingers briefly brush the curls of his hair. “You keep your moods to yourself, as always. But I’ve noticed. You’ve been acting strangely for weeks.”

 

“I do not wish to talk about it,” he answers her stiffly, and cringes. He sounds like a sullen child.

 

He has just enough view that he can see Frigga’s concerned face, her lifting one hand as she reaches for him again. “You can always tell me anything-”

 

“Not _this_ ,” Loki interrupts her, blurting. He pulls himself into a sitting position, shifting out of her reach and burying his face in his hands.

 

“I think there’s something wrong with me. _Physically_ wrong,” he confesses, mortified. “But it’s not the sort of thing one can discuss with his own _mother!_ ”

 

“Oh.” Frigga steps back, startled, understanding. “ _Oh,_ ” she repeats, more sharply.

 

He doesn’t look up at her and eventually she takes the hint and leaves.

 

Again, he lies down, on his back once more this time.

 

But again, he is not left alone for long.

 

Like the others the All-Father does not bother with knocking before he enters. But unlike his wife and his eldest, Odin somehow moves without making a sound.

 

He draws a slow breath in preparation to speak, and Loki hears its familiarity, and every muscle in his body tenses instantly as he feels a chill of dread.

 

“Father?” he begins, voice forced into sounding even but not quite succeeding. “My king? Is there something that I can help you with?”

 

“It is the opposite, Loki,” Odin answers him, grave. “Your mother says there is a matter you needed to ask me about.”

 

Loki stares up at the ceiling as he tries not to drown in his own despair. Is this day determined to torment him even more than usual?

 

“I’m not sure that I-”

 

“If you have something to say then say it,” Odin commands, unwilling to be dissuaded. “I have no patience for your games, but if this is important than I am more than willing to hear of it.”

 

Loki tries not to squirm. He weighs the two sides, the two kinds of unhappiness, and ultimately decides that one situation is more desperate than the other.

 

“I think I’m sick,” he admits at last. “I think…I don’t _know._ I’ve no explanation for what this is. But I can’t make it go away, and it’s nothing I’ve done to myself, and it isn’t magic-”

 

“What are you talking about?” Odin cuts in, demanding clarity.

 

Loki sits up, facing him, and for once he allows just how broken and wretched he feels to show on his face.

 

“There’s…there’s something wrong with my body,” he forces out, voice quaking as he gasps. The words tumble out, jarring and disjointed. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I feel…lust. Uncontrollable, insatiable, overwhelming _lust_.” He shakes his head. “And it won’t stop. There’s nothing I can do to make it stop. The things that I-”

 

He stops himself, unwilling to state any details, but he gives anyway in the abridged form of: “It’s scaring me.”

 

To his astonishment, Odin’s one eye goes wide. Not with revulsion, but with what looks like understanding. An uncertain wary kind, but still - Loki feels a startled clutch of hope.

 

Could it be the All-Father has the answer? That is not after all some unknown ailment?

 

“How long has this been going on?” Odin asks, his voice growing soft but no less adamant.

 

“Weeks, a month maybe. Or more.” Loki tries to remember. The days have begun blurring lately. “Far, far longer than it should.”

 

Odin draws a step back. His face is pale, almost shaken, Loki sees in surprised disbelief. A look of grim realization, as if despite knowing what has come to pass, it is something he would give anything not to. Loki can make no sense of it.

 

It’s almost like whatever has happened to him, it is not entirely unexpected. But how can that be?

 

Odin gestures with one hand, meeting Loki’s gaze solemnly. “Come. Get up.”

 

“Where are we going?” Loki asks, still trying to follow what’s going on in a daze, confusion marring his face.

 

“To the Vault.”

 

Loki frowns more deeply. What does the Vault and the dangerous treasures it holds have to do with him? But he has no chance to ask the question. His father isn’t done.

 

Odin turns and with back to him, Loki cannot see the expression on his face as he continues speaking: “It is high time you were shown something, I’m afraid.”


	8. Chapter 8

Loki stands in the oppressive quiet and stillness of the Vault, a few paces pulled back from the plinth housing the Casket that was brought as a trophy to Asgard so long ago.

 

He stares with gaping eyes at his outstretched hand, completely motionless as he watches the last traces of blue slowly fading away, along and upwards on his skin. It lingers stubbornly on the ends of his fingers.

 

He can look at nothing else. Everything seems so far away, all of a sudden. It’s as if he’s been buried alive inside his body. His voice is stuck firmly within his throat.

 

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

 

 _Of course,_ he thinks dazedly. _This is all a nightmare._ No wonder nothing has made any sense for so long, such strange things have been happening to him. He’s been asleep the whole time. Having a bad dream.

 

Just a bad dream, nothing more.

 

But. He still hasn’t woken up.

 

Odin breaks the silence then, as close to hesitant and uncertain as he could ever sound. “Loki-?”

 

Somehow, he forces himself to turn around, to face his king. His father. _Father_ : he clings to that word like a raft keeping him from falling into a stormy sea, terrified at the notion he’s about to have it ripped from beneath his grasp.

 

His face spasms; he truly has no idea what his own expression must look like. The only thing Loki is conscious of feeling is _overwhelmed_.

 

“I…I don’t understand.” He’s lying. As he always does, to so many for so many reasons, everything from spite to sheer boredom. But sadly, centuries of practice have robbed him of the power to lie convincingly to himself. “Why…how is it that it _does_ this to me?”

 

Gravely, Odin speaks the words that Loki longs not to hear: “Because you come from the same place.”

 

 _From Jotunheim_. This is what he means, even if not even he can bear to speak it aloud.

 

Loki steals a glance to the ancient Casket again, throat working. Despite all the power it holds in a way it looks so innocuous to him, so used to Asgard’s obvious weapons designed in their appearance to boast of power. It looked the same to him when he was a boy, when he and his brother were brought down here and shown it, as they were instructed in stories of ancient wars and the duty of kings.

 

He had no idea what to make of it, when the All-Father brought him here once more, this day, and commanded him to press his hand to its surface. The Casket of Ancient Winters, he well remembered, was filled with Jotunheim’s power – wasn’t it death to all who would risk touching it unshielded?

 

Death to all, save those who belonged to the world it was the heart of.

 

There is nowhere to run to. But Loki moves anyway, taking his eyes from the cursed object, not daring to move any closer to it again as he steps back from the All-Father. He shakes his head.

 

“No,” he breathes. “I can’t-”

 

“Do not make this any harder than it has to be,” Odin says, in the same heavy voice he would bid a supplicant to kneel before his throne. “Please.”

 

Once more, Loki’s gaze lowers as he looks at his own hand. The other wraps around his wrist tight, fingertips digging. He stares as if he expects it to change again before his very eyes, traitorous and wretched flesh twisting to something it should not be – something that has no place amongst the glitter and warmth of Asgard. Let alone guised as its prince.

 

“That day on Jotunheim,” he says slowly aloud, words working themselves in a tangle from his lips, “you didn’t just bring the Casket home with you, did you? You carried something else off as well. You brought-”

 

“You,” Odin finishes for him, though whether out of impatience or mercy Loki cannot say. “A helpless, innocent babe I found abandoned in what remained of the Jotun’s temple. A runt by their standards, who carried the markings of its father, Laufey-king.”

 

Loki almost gasps aloud. _Laufey._ So not just any Frost Giant, then; but the son of their leader, of Asgard’s ancient forsworn enemy.

 

Odin continues, “I brought you back, and raised you as my own. My son.”

 

He places great emphasis on these last words, but Loki takes no notice of them. He staggers forward, bent almost double, fingers clutching at his throat. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

 

The one-eyed king scowls, raising his voice. “This does not change anything,” he begins, irate.

 

Loki spins on him, making a sound of disbelief. “Oh _no?_ ” he demands, all but sneering at the nerve. “No difference at all?” His voice breaks as he comes close to giving a cruel hysterical laugh. “Then why’d you wait until nowto tell me? Why not let me know all along?”

 

Odin’s gaze actually drops away from his, too rightfully stymied and shamed to respond.

 

“I wanted to protect you,” he mutters. “To make things easier on you.”

 

Loki squeezes his eyes shut. “This makes _nothing_ easier for me – nothing, but the understanding of how it is I could never measure up. Of course Thor was always your pride and joy, the one that you favored. He’s your _son_. Whereas I am – I am, what?” His voice turns bitter as he theorizes. “A stolen foundling, too risky and worthless to keep as a thrall? A future bartering chip, perhaps?”

 

“You may have a mastery of words, Loki, but do _not_ presume that even you could speak for another,” Odin thunders, his tone growing dark as he loses sympathy. “Do not twist what I have said back on itself into such elaborations! It is not your place.”

 

“And what _is_ my place, oh King?” Loki demands, cutting him off once more with sheer venom. He turns his head to meet Odin in the eye. “Does the thing that haunts children’s fears at night belong so close to Asgard’s throne?”

 

The king’s shoulders drop. In spite of his white hair, the aged lines of his face, this is the closest Loki has ever come to seeing him truly look old. “I…” he begins, and then closes his eye and shakes his head, gesture weighted with mix of exasperation and defeat.

 

He says no more and Loki lingers awhile in the silence. He struggles to come back to himself, to feel as if he is not about to lose control or black out. His head is spinning – on top of the heat still rising from his blood, it’s too much. As if it wasn’t hard enough to keep his thoughts moving linearly. Now everything inside of him is a mess, tangle of pure desires and sensations spinning in and out between shards of a psyche that’s just been shattered like glass.

 

Finally he draws a breath through his nose, sniffing, and somehow finds the wherewithal to continue. “So,” he asks, with a stiff carelessness meant to be mocking, “why _did_ you tell me, now? What does this have to do with what’s happening to me?”

 

There is a restrained grimace on Odin’s face. His words come out in almost a sigh. “Frost Giants have a more rigid reproductive cycle than Asgardians. They can only have children at a certain time – and as a race, it is always at the _same_ time. The climate of their world demands for it.”

 

Loki thinks the reason that it takes him a moment to sort that out successfully is only because his mind reflexively balks in horror, refusing to make sense of what he’s being told.

 

“You mean to say that I’m in _heat_ ,” he spits out.

 

It’s a good thing he never ate today. There’s a writhing hole in his stomach that’s digging deeper and deeper.

 

“Yes,” Odin states, his voice quiet and weary. “That is what I mean to say.”

 

This is too much. It is all too much. The sickening thrum of boiling hunger still works its way up his body, burning beneath his collar. He fights to ignore it and fails at every step. Loki drops his head, hands pressing to his face.

 

“How long is this going to last?” he pleads.

 

It’s been months already. Surely it can’t go on for months more. Barbarians that they are, the Frost Giants would have killed half of their number off through uncontrolled dissolute fucking if they actually feel like this for an entire season.

 

Odin draws in a purposeful breath. Almost like he’s preparing himself for something. Loki is instantly unnerved.

 

“It will only end once it’s served its purpose.”

 

“ _What_ purpose?” Loki presses, beginning to grow aggravated. What more could the All-Father be hiding from him now? Hasn’t he been lied to enough?

 

“The purpose of all such cycles: conception.” Sounding borderline anxious now, Odin explains, “The Jotun are all one gender; there is no distinction of male or female among them. Each is capable of both siring and carrying offspring.”

 

Loki’s eyes fly open wide. _No_.

 

“It isn’t enough that you lay with others, I’m afraid. The desire will not leave you until you have successfully-”

 

“No. Please.” This cannot be happening.

 

“Successfully gotten with child,” Odin finishes, as if he’d never spoken. “There is no other way.”

 

Loki presses hands to his face again, this time to force back a sob. He knows it can’t be a nightmare because it’s worse than any _nightmare_ he could’ve ever imagined or dreamed. As if feelings of isolation and confusion weren’t enough to suffer.

 

He’s not even a man, he’s a monster; a thing compelled by bestial urges to give birth to _other_ monsters.

 

The All-Father waits a long time indeed before finally going, “Did you hear what I said? Loki…do you understand what-”

 

“I understand,” he interrupts curtly. His voice is wooden, completely toneless. “I wonder though, if I do not…do, as you say, what happens? Will this cause me to die?”

 

Odin is visibly perplexed by the question. “No.”

 

“I see. Shame.” He nods, once. Not a drop of emotion to be found. It’s all clamped down firmly inside, writhing. “You’ll have to kill me yourself, then.”

 

Odin scowls almost as a reflex. “I will do no such-”

 

“Well you’re going to have to, because I have absolutely no intention of doing what it is that you ask of me! _Father_ \- if I can even call you that!” Loki whirls on him, shrieking, stretched far past his breaking point. “Unless of course, I suppose you’d rather have the guards put me down like a dog.” He stops, voice growing quiet but no less frantic, for all his matter of fact delivery. “It’d be fitting, really. After all you can’t have some Frost Giant in heat wandering around – who _knows_ what such a crazed beast would do?”

 

The All-Father’s face is pained as he reaches out for him, but Loki flinches back from his grasp.

 

“No, don’t _touch_ me. How you could you-” His voice breaks again, and he meets the other’s gaze in earnest inquiry born of out desperation. “How did you think I was going to react to this?” He presses a hand over his breast. “Did you _honestly_ think, after all these years, after how you raised me, I could possibly take this _well?_ ”

 

Odin’s mouth parts and he looks as though he wishes to speak. But no words manage to come out.

 

They both know that there is nothing he can say to fix this. Nothing.

 

Loki turns his back to him and he means to storm off. But instead he runs – runs like a child, more concerned about getting away than knowing where he is going, for from this there is no place he can run to.


	9. Chapter 9

A son of Asgard is a warrior, a man who stands resolute and tall without the weakness of emotion.

 

A son of Asgard doesn’t waver, or cower. He doesn’t hide from what he’s afraid of. He has too much pride and honor for that.

 

He never, ever cries.

 

But Loki is no son of Asgard after all, is he? Even less than he’s felt like one his entire life.

 

So he cares not one whit about what one _should_ do.

 

Alone in his chambers he huddles in his bed, curled practically in half as he twists in on himself, hugging as tight as the awful knot buried at the bottom of his stomach. He pulls the piled blankets all but completely over his head – no matter how more unbearable it makes his fever. Anything to attempt to keep the phantom chill of Jotunheim at bay.

 

He sobs muffled into the pillow until the tears fall in silence and then not at all, eyes gone red and dry.

 

All he can think is one single, consuming thought, almost more a sense of desperation beyond words: _Why?_

 

He hates his body for doing this to him; for revealing the terrible secret, the _lie_ of what he really is. For what it’s driven to him to do – for the way that, even now, he can’t help but feel. For what he knows it wants of him, what it’s ultimately trying to make happen. He _hates_ it with a vicious bleak fury, more than he’s ever despised anything else.

 

He has no plan. No sense of the future, anymore. He can’t think forward.

 

He can only lay trapped in the same place, circling round and round inside of himself.

 

Falling deeper and deeper into this pit within him, a black and gaping chasm of despair. As much as he can tell so far, it has no bottom at all.

 

He knows not how long he lies there in the dark, undisturbed tears still drying on his face, when Frigga enters the room.

 

Without speaking she pulls a chair up to his bedside and sits, hand going to gently stroke through his hair, her eyes sad and heavy with sympathy.

 

“You should be more careful, Mother,” Loki says to her in a voice cruelly without inflection. “I have such little control of my impulses right now. Even throwing myself upon you isn’t that far out of reach. It’s not as if we’re really blood.”

 

She ignores his words, giving no sign that she’s even heard him. She remains where she is and continues petting him calmly, the way she did when he was a little boy stuck ill in bed.

 

The fondness and comfort offered by the memory now scrapes against his skin horribly, in these circumstances. It is a _lie_. All of it, it’s all lies. Every moment he’s lived for thousands of years.

 

Loki speaks again, more sharp. “Where is Thor? He’ll hate it terribly, that you’re neglecting him in favor of me. You know how he hates to have a single other thing rate as more important than him for even a moment. You should be with him. Save your love for the one that _truly_ matters.”

 

Still Frigga remains silent. Loki makes a feeble attempt to pull away from her touch.

 

“I don’t understand why you even care. You aren’t my really my mother.”

 

That at last causes her to speak – severe but no less calm. “Don’t _ever_ think that you can tell me who is and who is not my child,” she tells him, staring directly into his eyes, piercing with unwavering composure and certainty. “I held you in my arms when you were still a small, delicate thing. I watched and guarded over your steps as you grew, as you became the man you are today.”

 

Her hand goes to cup his cheek, fingertips absently tucking an errant strand of hair behind his ear. “I gave my mother-love freely and knowingly. No power in the nine realms can take that from me.”

 

Loki breaks just a little bit more, face crumbling and voice quivering in his throat as tears threaten again to spill. He shifts in anxious misery.

 

Frigga shakes her head, her own eyes shining. Her voice thickens with emotion.

 

“Oh, Loki. I am so sorry it came to this. That this is happening to you,” she murmurs unhappily. “I wish there was something I could do.”

 

He breathes out in a sigh, gaze going towards the ceiling as it hurts him more than he can stand right now to see that look on her face.

 

“Why did you never tell me?” he demands quietly. “Why try to hide it, when you knew I’d have to find out someday; that eventually this would happen?”

 

“But we didn’t know,” Frigga explains, fretful. “Not for certain. Your father is half-Jotun himself – or have you forgotten?”

 

Loki swallows, the inside of his throat feeling stiff and dry, unable to answer her for reluctance and shame. He _did_ forget.

 

But the All-Father is a true Asgardian in appearance and nature as far as anyone can tell. And the name of the Frost Giant that bore him is never spoken but in a whisper, as if the origin of their own ruler is considered distasteful. How can Loki be blamed for forgetting something he’s sure more than half of Asgard has put out of its mind as well?

 

Never minding his unresponsiveness, his mother shakes her head again. “He never went through the cycle himself. And ever since you were a baby, you’ve otherwise resembled our people in body.”

 

Briefly the touch of her hand turns possessive, or perhaps defensive. “We thought that maybe, since we raised you here as one of us, that you would be spared as well.”

 

Loki manages to speak, thickly. “You were wrong.”

 

“I know. That much is obvious.” Her words have a hint of reproach to them, if only for a moment. “But we also were not certain _when_ this would happen, if it was going to. If there’d been any forewarning or sense of timing, we would have told you,” she entreats. “But all we could do was wait and see.”

 

Loki pulls away from her, at first rolling so he’s flat on his back, staring upwards. Then he moves again, half-sitting as he forcefully kicks the blankets off him.

 

Frigga sits perfectly straight in her chair with her hands folded in her lap. She watches him patiently and doesn’t make as much as a sound.

 

His fingers curl, fisting against the sheets. “Is there no other way?” he asks, quiet for all that he’s desperate for any escape from this.

 

“I don’t think so,” she tells him, apologetic, almost mournful, but unwilling to mislead him with false hope. “You could try to live with it, but.” She stops herself – they both know that that isn’t an option. This fire will consume whatever’s left of him if it’s allowed to burn unchecked for any longer.

 

Even though it’s unnecessary, Loki cannot help himself. “You have no idea; the things I’ve already been driven to do. More like an animal, than anything – fitting, I suppose, considering underneath it all I’m really a beast.” His lips curl sourly. “Would you like to hear about them?”

 

“Don’t be crude,” is all she says in reply, dismissive, not rising to his bait. “It’s pointless, and what’s more it isn’t like you.”

 

 _But I haven’t been like myself for quite some time, Mother,_ he thinks feverishly. _I’m not even entirely sure who or what ‘myself’ is, anymore._

 

He bites his tongue, and she continues. “The All-Father said that there may be some way to repress it, some potion or spell, but it would require time to uncover and…he did not sound particularly hopeful.”

 

Loki hugs himself across the stomach, shoulders leaning forward as his head drops. “I do not want to do this,” he states, feebly.

 

In truth he supposes the notion of being a father has always seemed somehow odd to him, almost unnerving, something he was never meant for. It’s not as if carrying on the bloodline is important for him – he is a second son. The throne was never meant to fall to him.

 

The only one who really _needs_ to have heirs is Thor. So like with much else, Loki was content to leave that to him.

 

But now not only is he being _forced_ into having offspring – it will be a creature he acts as dam to, not sire. Something that will grow inside of him in what he can’t help thinking of as abomination of nature.

 

Frigga places a reassuring hand on his knee. “I would much rather have had you had children in your own time, out of desire and in a manner of your choosing,” she admits, regretfully. “But it isn’t the end of the world.”

 

“You’ve resigned yourself entirely to an illegitimate grandchild placing shame upon the royal house, then,” Loki states with cold bitterness.

 

Once again she ignores the purposefully derisive remark, at least for the most part. “The situation is…more unusual, true,” she begins tactfully. “But you’ll hardly be the first noble to find themselves in such a state. There are a dozen ways to conceal a child of complicated origin, both before and after birth. It’s been done since time immemorial.”

 

In this at least he has to admit she’s right. Women and girls alike have made an art of it right beneath the watchful eyes at court, hiding telltale bellies behind heavy skirts or excusing themselves from public completely, placing unwanted or merely inconvenient babes in the arms of a parent or friend or even a trusted stranger.

 

But for all the times Loki has watched it happen, reveling diffidently in the knowledge it’s only his inherent cunning and wariness that makes him take note of what most others remain oblivious to, he _never_ thought one day he’d have to do it himself.

 

He casts about at random for something to say. “Does it have to be with a man?”

 

“I don’t believe so,” Frigga replies, thoughtful. “From what we understand, it has to do more with something like a transfer of essence than anything strictly physical.”

 

“I see.” Loki’s mouth twists in a completely humorless smile as he makes an attempt at lightness that comes out vicious and hollow. “Maybe I’ll find a barren woman, then. Perhaps some old spinster who’s never fully reconciled to the empty longing in her heart. At least that way _someone_ will be made happy by this.”

 

For a moment or two Frigga does not speak. Her expression grows pensive, distant, her countenance darkening.

 

At last she says, her voice careful and leaden, “You only have to conceive in order to end the cycle. You do not actually have to give birth.”

 

Loki freezes completely in a form of shocked disbelief. It takes him a moment of his own to be able to look her in the eye, incredulous.

 

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” he demands, barely able to force the words out.

 

He knows how important families are to his mother, how she dotes on and prizes all children. The mortals noticed it so much they worshipped her as a goddess of the household, of matriarchs, and midwives would call out to her for aid and blessing during delivery.

 

Ending a pregnancy before it is successful is not unheard of among their people, nor impossible, but it is severely frowned upon, more so even than an illegitimate birth…and for Frigga herself to suggest it is unspeakable.

 

She can’t fully meet his gaze, her brow heavy. “I do not want you to be miserable,” she states, voice empty. “That’s what’s more important to me. It’s all I care about.”

 

Loki holds his breath at first, but eventually he shakes his head.

 

“No. No, I won’t. Whether or not I _keep_ what I deliver afterwards is one thing – but I will at least go that far.” He shakes his head, eyes dropping. “Unwanted as this is to me, I could never do that.”

 

 _To you_ , he adds silently, in his mind.

 

His mother would find it in her heart to forgive him, but she would never forget. It’d be a hurtful thing she kept inside, stinging her every time she looked at him. He’d see it in her eyes. And it would drive Loki mad – he’d never be able to stand such a cloud lingering between them.

 

Better to suffer for months than destroy what he has with her forever.

 

Frigga smiles faintly, with unabashed relief, and what even looks like a trace of pride. She reaches for him again, caressing his forehead.

 

“It will be alright, Loki,” she promises him. “Everything happens for a reason.”

 

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that for a long time he’s been convinced there’s no reason in his life outside of what’s designed to make him feel hurt. He stays silent, gloomy, and lets her pull him in for a hug.

 

*

 

For three days and three nights Loki remains shut up in his room. No one attempts to disturb him – he can only assume the All-Father and his queen have told all to leave him in peace.

 

He wonders what excuse they made, this sudden need of his for complete and utter solitude. Some bout of illness, perhaps.

 

It wouldn’t be all that far from the truth, he thinks. Certainly he feels _diseased_.

 

The heady lust that prickles along his skin and weighs down his limbs nags incessantly, the distraction and want for sex never far from his mind. The horror of knowing, at last, why he feels this way makes no difference at all. In a way it almost becomes worse, now that he can no longer divert himself by wondering about the question. His body demands relief. Every nerve and sense screams at him in pleading agony.

 

He can’t take his mind off it with books, with magic, or with drink. He tries food, gorging until he feels sick, and then gives up on eating at all. He needs to drug himself in order to obtain even restless sleep.

 

Cloaked in a heavy blanket he fretfully paces the floor.

 

It isn’t just that he is afraid of what he must do. He’s still a little concerned and confused by the _how_. All the exertion he’s had, all the partners he’s laid with ever since this state overtook him – he’d think with all of _that_ he’d have certainly managed conception.

 

And yet the craving and yearning persists, which means it hasn’t happened. Is there something he’s missing? If so, it’s also unknown to his parents, for they never mentioned anything.

 

He only hopes that, in the end, the matter is as straightforward as everyone else would seem to indicate.

 

There’s nothing left to do but swallow down his disgust, his despair as best he can, and get this over with. Shoulder the burden he’s been handed, and do what he must. The sooner the better.

 

He waits until night is just beginning to creep into day, and even in such a busy place as the palace most is silence. He sits by the door listening with careful attentiveness, for the first pair of passing feet.

 

As soon as the sound he’s waiting for comes, Loki stands, gray fabric still hooded over his head and wrapped around his body as he pulls back the door. He steps forward and peers out.

 

A servant, barely more than a youth starts, halting in his steps.

 

Loki reaches out a pale hand, gesturing to him. “You.”

 

“M-me, your highness?” The servant blinks at him in nervous confusion. Despite knowing better he looks around as if there could be someone more important or noteworthy nearby. “Is there something I can do for you?”

 

“Yes. There is,” he states.

 

The youth is ruddy-faced, with a flat nose and missing a tooth. Not particularly tall, not particularly broad either. His hair is red like faded straw, and it sticks out in all directions. He’s poorly washed – ugly, to be quite frank. Loki doesn’t care. Why should it matter? What matters, anymore?

 

He raises his hand again in a gesture to move closer. “Come here,” he orders, low and breathy.

 

The servant stares up at him. For a moment, Loki pictures what he must look like – a shrouded figure, face concealed in shadows, green eyes gleaming in a haze. Then he banishes it from his mind.

 

He gestures again. The serving lad starts to take a step.

 

And then the shadows in a nearby alcove warp and twist, distorting as something appears where there was nothing, the hidden revealing itself. Speaking the runes necessary to banish his spell of invisibility the All-Father strides forward, towering in the cold inferno of aloof kingly rage.

 

The servant freezes. Odin glowers down at him from past his nose, rendering him at once no more significant than a speck of dust.

 

“Be gone,” he commands, and the young man needs no other warning. He turns tail and bolts, vanishing as completely as if he himself had turned invisible.

 

The air knocked out of him by the _closeness_ , by frustration and desperation and a hundred other things, too piled on top of each other within him to even name, Loki’s legs give out from under him. He buckles, sprawled on hands and knees on the floor. He lets out an aggrieved sound, a wail cut short as he chokes on his own breath.

 

Odin turns sharply to shoot an outraged, displeased look at him. “How dare you,” he snaps out in a rising growl, incensed. “That was _beyond_ disgraceful!”

 

With a scalded sound, Loki raises his head to look at him in livid and unfettered disbelief - in _hate_. “You would speak to me of disgrace?” he hisses. “Have you really the nerve?”

 

He balls his hands into fists, pressing them down hard against the stone floor of the hallways.

 

“ _Look_ at me. See for yourself what I’ve been reduced to, a condition you know full well I have no control over, and for which you gave me not an ounce, not a _word_ of warning.” He feels himself close to shaking and starts to lose what little hold he has on sense, beginning to babble: “My whole life…you _lied_ to me, and that-”

 

“That was a _boy_ ,” Odin cuts him off with a shout, unwavering. “Too young to yet grow a beard – and not worthy even to be assigned to carry the refuse out of your chamber after you were done with it.”

 

As Loki bites his lips so hard he thinks he almost draws blood, the king looks down at him with enough weighted fury in his one eye to make up for two.

 

“You should know better. I know that you do,” he states to Loki with clear-cut distaste. “If he had even touched you, I would have sent him at once to stand post at some desolate fort deep in the outlands, to help keep the goblins at bay. For a conscript period of no less than five hundred years.”

 

Loki stares at him vacantly. The forts on the borderlands are cold and miserable, under-stocked and neglected. They suffer frequent assault by orcs and dark elves, and are run mostly by thuggish mercenaries as likely to turn on each other.

 

Five centuries out there, for a serving boy who probably can barely hold a sword – that’s not a punishment, that’s an execution.

 

“Then his death would be on your head,” he says to Odin, flatly.

 

“No,” the king instantly retorts, thunderous. “It would be on _yours_.” After a pause he shakes his head. “I abide much from you, but must you always be determined to push me too far?”

 

“You make it sound as if this is easy,” Loki exclaims brokenly. “What am I to do? All I want is for my suffering to end.”

 

“You are lying.” Odin huffs. “Even if for once, you don’t realize it for yourself. It would seem your gilded tongue is truly that gifted,” he observes deprecatingly.

 

Loki makes a sound of disbelief that threatens to turn into a sob. He sways where he crouches in a heap on the floor.

 

“If I had but the power,” he announces, “I would turn back time, to when you first found me on Jotunheim, and let you leave me to _die_ instead!” He seethes, grim and unforgiving. “Clearly, we would both be a lot better off!”

 

Odin stops, and gazes down at him. His anger changes to weary sorrow.

 

“If you are so determined to humiliate and hurt me, my son, then so be it,” he says solemnly. “Maybe it’s true I even deserve it. But I would only pray that for all your cleverness, you could find some way to do it without destroying yourself in the process.”

 

And without another word, the All-Father turns and then walks away.


	10. Chapter 10

Loki passes yet another day shut up in his room, listlessly abed, in a state somewhere between sleeping and not. He is giving up hope, he realizes; he can feel the faint scarce shreds that still remain within him wafting away, curling up and fading like scraps of paper turned to embers tossed on a fire. He knows this sense all too well by now. Losing hope is no stranger to him. Like long ago when he finally gave up on the idea that he would ever be able to fully fit in; like the time that came inevitably after that, when he gave up on ever finding a way to be Thor’s equal. It is familiar, this unpleasant pang that comes from helplessly falling to the shadows of surrender.

 

He doesn’t know what to do. Apparently casting about at random for the cure to his state is a path that’s been forbidden him. Even now, his father can make nothing easy for him.

 

Though even as he nurses his grudge, some detached stubbornly logical part of his mind reminds him that Odin was not entirely wrong – letting some unnamed and low-bred servant have their way with him would be disastrous. The curse of the noblesse oblige; their lives and choices even in moments of weakness can never be entirely their own, taught already as children they are always having to weigh and yield to the yoke of responsibility.

 

Even if that retainer hadn’t successfully had his get upon Loki, letting a dustpan ruffian linger about the palace who could potentially tell people he had sex with one of the princes would be unthinkable. Death would certainly be a severechoice, but he would have to be sent off or gotten rid of somehow.

 

In a lonely and desperate corner of himself that clings for any sense of belonging or sign of approval, he is allowed to consider that maybe in the extremity of his reaction, it was Odin’s way of showing the protectiveness he feels towards his adoptive son.

 

Loki pushes it aside in something almost like petulance. But honestly, he thinks in aggravation, what exactly _is_ he expected to do? If he sleeps his way through the gentry _that_ will hardly reflect well on his family’s standing, either.

 

He paints a picture within his thoughts of the scandal that would erupt. Odin’s strange and outcast second son; the Trickster, the lie-spinner and oath-breaker and shape-stealer and manipulator of magics, the one none ever really knew what to make of…a consummate whore.

 

It would be a fine day for gossips and loose talkers, indeed.

 

This is getting him nowhere. But he has no idea where to turn. Even if he wasn’t fully aware of what his body was trying to do, he’s made an attempt with just about everything. Men, women, mortals, Vanir, elves – is there even anything left?

 

He could never lay with a dwarf; he bears their race as whole too deep a grudge, for certain ill-planned childish misadventures and the consequences he was made to suffer. He doubts he could even find one willing anyway, for the same incidents have made the name ‘Loki Liesmith’ as repellant and hated among their people.

 

In a deep well of self-hatred he considers if only for a pause the possibility of returning himself to Jotunheim. He could probably find a way. Maybe his nature would be best-suited for him to mate with one of his… _kind_.

 

The child he will have to bear will be of Jotun blood anyway. So why not?

 

Because he would gladly die screaming before he let one of those monsters touch him, that’s why. Even if he is one of them.

 

Morning fades into afternoon then passes on into the later hours. It’s almost evening and Loki has not seen the sun all day.

 

Cocooned in his bed he daydreams of running away, leaving behind his belongings and traveling far from their realm, finding a nice cliff somewhere to throw himself off of. Yes. That would be lovely.

 

Even though it won’t really do any good, he decides he could probably use some fresh air.

 

He gets up. Uses magic to clean – it’s something he usually saves for when he’s in a hurry, for Loki is fastidious by nature and even though he’s sure it’s a trick of the mind, he swears he can still feel stray particles of dirt against his skin. He much prefers soap and water. Right now he simply doesn’t care. He dresses in all black again and takes down a heavier cloak than is necessary for the season, the better to cover up.

 

There is a small courtyard to one far side of the palace, where empty arched windows are a comfortable seat, with a view overlooking a tidy but plain patch of garden.

 

It’s an out of the way spot few linger in or even seem much aware of. But Loki has made an extensive catalogue of places where can be alone to muse or recollect his thoughts. And the windows face south, which makes a perfect spot for watching the path of the sun.

 

He makes his way there and settles himself against one edge of the stone frame of the awning, legs folded under him as he leans his head and shoulders into the curve of the wall.

 

It’s still bright out but the light has started to turn the golden of a day beginning to fade. The air has the temperate feel of twilight. Loki breathes it in steadily.

 

If he cannot find peace or happiness, at least he is calm and composed in his misery.

 

But just when he thinks he’s starting to empty his mind, coming close to being able to ignore the incessant demand emanating from his body, he hears the sound of someone approaching.

 

Loki tenses instantly, frowning, preparing to be as antisocial as possible – not that it’s much a stretch at present – in order to drive the unwanted company off.

 

His scowl deepens in instinctive annoyed reaction as he sees who it is.

 

“Good day to you, Loki,” Balder the Bright says politely. His pace slows and he makes every sign of stopping for an attempt at conversation.

 

Loki wonders just at what point his existence became so very doomed to suffering.

 

“Balder. You’re looking well,” he mutters. There is no warmth in his voice – the formality clearly just that. He shifts to begin turning away from him again.

 

When the dismissal doesn’t seem to sink in, he adds, “As cherubic and bright-eyed as ever,” in a snide tone of obvious if understated insult.

 

Balder says nothing. He stands there and takes it with a peaceable look, letting the words bounce off him the same way he once stood as hurled stones and weapons were deflected away from his body.

 

And look how well _that_ turned out.

 

If Thor is the embodiment of everything about Asgard that Loki finds detestable, then Balder is the embodiment of everything that grates against him in general. He is brave and noble and chivalrous, and worst of all perfectly _sincere_ in all of it. He never tells lies, is puzzled and unsuspecting when they are told to him – certainly ‘Bright’ is no reflection on his intelligence. Somehow for a warrior whose age measures in millennia and has been in both life and death, he maintains an amazingly high level of naïveté.

 

He is just too good, too sweet, and everyone _adores_ him for it. Men praise and grin at him. Women bat their eyelashes and titter to one another, blushing, as he walks past.

 

But of course Balder the Bright, Balder the Brave, never lets it go to his head. He has the humility of a saint.

 

Disgusting.

 

Loki has no patience for enduring Balder’s mindless and insipid cheer at the best of times. Right now if he has to stand his presence for too long he may make a more purposeful attempt at the murder he once achieved by accident.

 

He twists his head and sucks at his lower lip between his teeth, having every intention not to speak until the other takes the hint and goes away.

 

“It’s a nice view, isn’t it?” Balder remarks, either persistent or very oblivious. He lifts his chin up and gazes out the window, smiling. “I like to come here to watch sun rising or setting, at times. It’s excellent for it.”

 

That they could both share a preference for this remote location and for the same reasoning rankles against Loki’s skin. He prizes his secrets and Balder is at the very bottom of the list for those he would ever think to give them to freely.

 

As he seethes in silence though, all but holding his breath, Balder steals a look at him sideways. That bland grin at last falters.

 

“Are you feeling alright?” Balder questions, timidly, eyes widening in what must be generic good-natured concern. “You’re very…quiet. If something is bothering you, I-”

 

“There is nothing wrong with me,” Loki lies, flatly, cutting him off curt. Because that is what he does – he lies. To everyone. How could he not? His entire existence is comprised of lies.

 

There’s a pause, but then Balder sways a bit closer with a pained sort of insistence, shaking his head. “It’s just that-”

 

“I said _I am fine_ ,” Loki interrupts him, practically shouting, head whipping around to glare. “I only wish to be left alone, is all!” Balder stops dead in his tracks.

 

Never minding that now, Loki keeps going, frustration forcing its way out of him. He makes angry gestures with one of his hands. “I swear,” he gives a sound that could pass for a strangled, mirthless chuckle, “is there something wrong with my voice?” he demands. “It’s like no one _hears_ me anymore, whenever I speak.”

 

He trails off with an impatient shake of his head, forcefully swallowing his voice back down. He doesn’t bother looking at Balder again. Unwanted as it was, he assumes the outburst will do the job of driving the other man off.

 

He’s surprised when after a few moments pass, Balder speaks, raising his voice with gentle clarity. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to ignore you.”

 

When Loki turns to look at him with a questioning frown, Balder gives a shrug.

 

“He just has a lot on his mind, is all.”

 

Loki is completely puzzled, not sure at all what Balder means. “What?”

 

“Your brother,” Balder explains, tone as if he thinks it should be perfectly obvious. “I noticed you’ve been seemingly in a bad mood, ever since his coronation started coming closer. So I figured that was the reason why.”

 

It is all Loki can do to just stare at him. His mouth hangs slightly agape in disbelief.

 

He isn’t sure what’s more astonishing. That Balder would be paying enough attention to him to have noticed, out of all the courtiers, that Loki was upset or that he would actually come so very close to deducing the reason why. He’s not even wrong, completely – the situation with Thor _was_ a cause for distress at first. It’s just that lately he’s become fixated on other things.

 

Misreading the silence for offense or indignation, Balder quickly averts his gaze. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” he begins, blue eyes focused on his toes.

 

Loki feels compelled to throw him a bone. “You aren’t incorrect. Not entirely. But, it’s no matter, now.”

 

He looks away again distantly towards the sky, indicating that’s all he wishes to say on the subject. And for once Balder picks up the hint. He nods.

 

Loki can tell that Balder’s head is turned the same direction as his, but without looking back over his shoulder he can’t tell if what Balder has his eyes on is the same view or Loki himself.

 

The warrior noble lingers uncertainly. Just as he seems to begin considering leaving, Loki murmurs, “You may stay. If you like.”

 

He isn’t entirely sure why he makes the offer. Maybe because Balder’s managed to prove that he may have been underestimating him slightly. The company really makes no difference to him either way.

 

“Oh. Of course.” There’s a note of enthusiasm in Balder’s voice that Loki cannot understand.

 

As much love as Balder gets from everyone else, it makes no sense why he always seems so concerned that he try to win Loki’s approval as well. Or maybe he does have some trace of an ego after all – it wounds him that there would be any who doesn’t share in unabashed worship of their prized hero.

 

But in any case, Loki stays where he is and Balder comes over, sitting on the other end of the window, mail clinking as he swings his legs over the side and kicks them momentarily, like a boy.

 

They remain there in something that passes for companionable silence. Despite the distance of the few feet between them it’s not really enough; even with the stone windowsill against the curve of his cheek and one side of his body Loki still thrums with heat, and he can smell and taste the life which emanates from Balder’s form, see the shape of his muscles beneath his chainmail.

 

Balder is handsome, of course. Indeed, he all but shines. His complexion is a perfect mix of pink and fair, preferring to keep his face clean-shaven and somehow not losing any respect for it. Maybe simply because the look works for him. He _would_ have a strong face, for the shape of his nose and sturdiness of his jaw, if not for how long past childhood his cheeks remain stubbornly full and round; something that Loki has used as a source of mockery and everyone else calls attractive. But it adds to Balder’s overall look of innocence, right up there with his wide earnest eyes and hair that despite how short he wears it, still manages on occasion to form wisps of baby-soft curls that hang over his eyes. The hair is pale brown and his eyes are blue – not the deep storm color of Thor’s but lighter and clearer, a shade admirers would liken to a spring pond or maybe those belonging to a puppy dog.

 

Because he is comely and well-built and _right there_ , Loki’s body sings out in longing – but Loki would never. He knows better than that.

 

He remembers. They were still youths really, but old enough that they could call themselves warriors and men and everyone would indulge them. Balder’s mother doted on so perfect, so precious a son, to the point where she got the court’s mages to weave a web of protection around him. Nothing was supposed to be able to hurt Balder – and Asgard being what it is, the people decided to take this as a challenge, a source of amusement.

 

It infuriated Loki, standing hidden in the shadows in the sidelines, as everyone took turns throwing deadly things at a beaming Balder, his arms spread obligingly wide to offer a better target. Balder would complement them on their aim and laugh with them when they made jokes.

 

Not only was it possibly the most idiotic, brazenly foolhardy thing that Loki had ever seen…as if Balder needed another reason to be loved. Yet another way to make him the shining beacon, the darling of all.

 

But Loki would show them; he would find the weakness in Balder’s protections (there was always a weakness, he knew) and then they would see how stupid they were. Oh yes, then they would see.

 

His plan worked a little too well. So well in fact, that it ended in a pool of blood and Balder’s impaled corpse.

 

It was an accident truly – but Balder’s parents were of very high standing, enough to make a serious matter even more so. They demanded the All-Father do something, that he find some way to compensate them for their unthinkable loss and make things right. Odin had all sorts of magic and dear-bought wisdom, powers that he was careful never to use lest it upset the order of things.

 

But this time he did. He manipulated the realms, literally moved heaven and earth alike, and brought Balder – beloved Balder, who it was said every living thing wept over the loss of – back to life.

 

It was so very long ago and with lives like theirs, most things can be eventually forgotten. But Loki is well aware of the dark looks that fall his way, should he even dare to accidentally tread too close to Balder. He hears the occasional meaningful whisper of ‘murderer’. He knows what would be a liberty too boldly taken.

 

If he sullied Balder with his touch, all of Asgard would probably rise up as one to strike Loki down.

 

Unaware to his thoughts, of course, Balder notes, making idle conversation, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around today. Another adventure with Thor and the others?” All innocent eagerness for a good story, an exciting tale.

 

His eyelids hanging heavily, almost closed, Loki gives a weak smile. “No.” His brother has better things to do, and all of their friends hate him now. “I’ve just been in my chambers. I haven’t been feeling entirely well.” He’s too wearied for anything but honesty, even if it’s brief and full of omission.

 

Balder’s face drops. “I’m sorry.”

 

Loki doesn’t bother to look at him. From his posture one might think he’s about to fall asleep; he wishes that he were. He feels so tired, but with his system electrified with lust finding rest is impossible.

 

“It’s no matter,” is all he says, words formed from one languid side of his mouth.

 

Balder turns so his upper body is facing him, leaning so they’re a little closer – Loki shuts his eyes tight for a second, pained, hopefully managing to pass it off as mere annoyance.

 

“Well it’s not…nothing.” Balder sounds confused. “Your health is important, after all.”

 

“Important to _whom?_ ”

 

Loki opens his eyes to find Balder gazing at him with wide-eyed bewilderment. Loki heaves a heavy sigh, eyes briefly rolling before he lets his lids cover them once more. “No one cares about me,” he states in a bland, frank murmur.  It’s not self-pity, it’s just fact.

 

Balder sounds appalled. “That’s not true,” he insists in dismay. “Of course others care.” When Loki gives every sign of ignoring him, he feels the need to press the argument. “You have your family, and then there’s the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three…” There’s a strange pause before he adds, “I care about you.”

 

Loki’s eyes go upward again. His mouth sets in a wry frown. “You are very kind,” he says dismissively, almost derisive.

 

“I do!” Balder retorts, adamantly. “I do care about you and your well-being; I’m not just being polite.” His gaze drops, distant, a focused and stubborn frown forming that makes him look even more childlike. “I know…we aren’t friends, you’ve never really seemed to warm to me-”

 

“How incredibly perceptive of you,” Loki notes with acerbic sarcasm. “What was your first clue? Was it the mistletoe?”

 

Balder freezes momentarily. Everyone thinks about his death, certainly, but no one ever _talks_ about it. Least of all Loki. He definitely doesn’t joke about it – for once there is nothing funny he finds about a situation or the role he played.

 

But Loki doesn’t care who he hurts, anymore. He doesn’t care what he really feels. What’s appropriate or not. He’ll say whatever he has to in order to get his way.

 

Balder draws in a careful breath, though, letting the remark flow past him and away. Still not meeting Loki’s gaze, he continues.

 

“But, even if you don’t like me; that’s fine, of course, I just…I’ve always…” There’s an odd, awkwardly wistful smile on his face. As if he’s laughing at some private joke. “When we were little, actually, I had such a-”

 

And then he stops himself, a mild look of horror overtaking him. As if he’s said too much.

 

Loki’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Such a what?” he questions. He really doesn’t know what to make of this bizarre way that Balder is acting.

 

In a forceful movement that seems against his will, Balder’s eyes rise to meet his – then quickly go away again. A heated color starts to rise on his face. Loki stares. Is he actually _blushing?_

Somehow they closed the distance between them a bit and as a result Balder’s hand wound up positioned close to Loki’s own. As if suddenly aware of this Balder pulls his entire arm back in a graceless, overwrought manner. Like to even leave his hand where it was would be temptation too much.

 

Loki goes completely still as it becomes evident there’s really only one way to finish what Balder was saying: ‘ _I had such a crush.’_

 

And considering how he’s practically flailing at him at present…it wouldn’t appear that confession belongs entirely in the past tense, either.

 

As perfectly motionless as a statue he stares at Balder, who continues fidgeting and flushing and avoiding his gaze like a schoolboy. In an instant he looks back over every moment – every time Balder would insist on toddling after them when Loki assumed he was trying to get close to Thor like everyone else, every time Balder swallowed Loki’s fibs and backhanded compliments happily, every wounded and confused look in those pale blue eyes whenever Loki mocked or outride sneered at him.

 

It’s like a bucket of ice water poured over his head. It’s like being struck by one of Thor’s lightning bolts. It’s like…it’s like…Loki does not even know what it’s like. How to find language to describe it.

 

It’s like he’s just found out that Balder the Bright - the chivalrous warrior without compare or flaw, the near epitome of all perfection that Asgard has to offer, it’s most cherished star, who is supposed to find some equally perfect maiden to woo and court gracefully and fawn over - is in love with him. _Him_. The second son, the sly outcast sorcerer, the permanent shadow attached to Asgard’s light. Forever on the periphery but never meant to belong.

 

Loki stares, and he keeps right on staring until Balder has no choice but to look at him again.

 

“Are you trying to play some trick on me?” Loki demands fiercely. If this is meant to be a ruse, a confession in jest, he could _never_ forgive himself for falling for it. It’s too unlikely to be believed.

 

But Balder, his thoughts remind him, whirling in confusion, is not one for pranks or mockery. He isn’t just a terrible liar; Loki doesn’t think he’s ever seen him _try_. It’s like he’s physically incapable. And it would never occur to him to do this on his own – and it would never occur to anyone to try and put him up to it either.

 

Balder’s eyes widen at the question. “Oh, no!” he immediately protests. “No, I would never…” His rounded cheeks color again. “I’d never do that,” he more quietly insists.

 

Evidently how aghast and baffled he feels must be showing on Loki’s face – but then, he couldn’t even think to hide it. Balder blinks at him.

 

“What?” he asks nervously. “I don’t – expect you to have to feel the same way, of course, I only…wanted you to know that-”

 

“How can this even be possible,” Loki wonders aloud in overwhelmed astonishment, interrupting him.

 

When all that elicits is a puzzled look, Loki says pointedly, disbelieving that he even has to spell it out: “You’re _you_.” There’s another pause as Balder still stares at him blankly.  “And I’m…”

 

When he starts to trail off Balder shocks him by finishing, softly, “Lovely.” He manages to meet Loki’s eyes even as his face stays tinged by a rosy flush. “You’re handsome, and charming, and brave and clever and…perfect.”

 

He smiles bashfully as he says it, in a soft voice full of infatuated awe.

 

Loki exhales and without meaning to it comes in a pained sort of gasp. Balder the Brave and Beautiful would never be forsworn. If he says that he thinks someone is perfect then truly, he thinks that they are perfect.

 

His pulse flutters in a way that has not entirely to do with his disturbed libido as he leans forward to give Balder a kiss.

 

Why not, _why not_ ; certainly there could be no shame in _this_ choice to gift his willing and needy body to. It’s _Balder_. Just about all of Asgard has probably fantasized about having him in their bed.

 

They’re cousins, but distantly, somewhere through Frigga’s line, and it’s not as if they’re really blood anyway, and…Loki can’t think any more. No one has ever before claimed to have love for him – at least not _that_ kind. More than just his body cries out with empty longing.

 

Balder starts beneath him, surprised, but he gives in readily. Loki leans into him, creeping forward on the stone ledge, knees bumping and the warmth of their bodies brushing through layers of clothing. A sturdy hand presses upon Loki’s shoulder and another goes to touch the ends of his hair. It’s not an entirely chaste kiss but there’s something about it, rendered purer by the earnest jumpiness and enthusiasm to please that pervades Balder’s affections. He kisses with the experience of a man but the heartfelt ways of a boy. It’s wonderful.

 

When they part, Balder is breathless. One of Loki’s palms rests against his chest not far from his heart, pale fingers pressing in search of a feel for flesh and muscle beneath layers of clothes and armor.

 

“You aren’t just…fooling with me, are you?” Balder asks him, a mixture of stern and secretly terrified. Loki can see the desperate pleading in his eyes: _Don’t toy with what I give you freely, I beg of you. It would be too much. Too cruel, even for you._

 

“No,” is all Loki says in reply, never breaking eye contact even as his head shakes. His hand moves slowly upward to cup the side of Balder’s jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip.

 

There is no one else around. In his hyperaware state Loki would have sensed them approach. There’s no need to look; they only have eyes for each other.

 

Gradually Loki pulls his hand away and gets off the window, standing. He moves back only a few steps before he reaches out to Balder. Balder looks at his hand and then lifts his eyes to Loki’s own. They never move away again, even as he grasps his palm firmly in his own, even as he rises.

 

He stares deep into Loki’s eyes with a heat in his own and a light smile on his face, like he finds them captivating, like he could never want to look at anything else.

 

Balder moves forward and Loki moves back only a little; eventually they collide into one another. His hands go to Balder’s shoulders, his upper arms. Balder grasps at his waist and towards the small of his back. It turns into an embrace, which turns into more kissing, this time both exploratory and passionate. Even as his mouth moves against Balder’s, his eyes closed, Loki is instinctively pushed backwards until his back’s against the wall, breath coming in soft enthused sounds whenever his lips are freed as Balder continues to caress him.

 

Balder is almost as tall as he is, but less slender, more broad at the shoulders. He’s a pillar of life and strength to hold onto, moving in Loki’s arms just enough to be pleasurable. He slips aside the fabric of Loki’s cloak in order to get at his neck. Loki presses against him, writhing a bit without really meaning to. _Yes, yes._ Balder drinks him in with an equal mixture of delicacy and greed. He hungers and wants but in a way that’s reverent – it’s in every motion, as he kisses and nips and pets Loki’s hair and face.

 

Loki feels half undone already, the wall possibly the only thing that’s keeping him upright. All the debauchery he’s hurled himself into ever since his body became so receptive, and these simple if earnest embraces have made him unable to feel his legs.

 

Considerable how honorable Balder is, Loki is remotely aware he doesn’t want to give him the wrong impression. This is not entry to something he wishes to go slow. He tilts his hips more purposefully against the other, rubbing. Balder tenses for a moment but then his ministrations take on a different tone. One that screams ‘foreplay’. _Good._

 

Eventually Balder pulls back enough for their faces to meet, both of them panting shallowly. There’s a hesitance as he gazes at Loki – like it’s too much for him to trust. “Your bed, or mine?” he finally asks.

 

Loki takes a deeper breath so his words come out even, though in a husky whisper. “I believe yours is closer.”

 

Balder moves back to free him from his weight, nodding with a slowly warming smile, as he allows himself to believe.

 

Their steps are quick and hurried, heads down as if afraid someone will spot them. Loki even has his hood drawn again over his face. No need at all, really; they take the back way, smaller corridors, untraveled, and by now it’s fully evening. Everyone will be in the dining hall or partnering off elsewhere for their own sport.

 

Once inside the door, closed and bolted, Loki immediately drops his cloak to the floor and goes about kicking off his boots. His hands go to his belt – he’s startled when Balder reaches for his wrist, pulling it away, pulling Loki to him.

 

“No, no, let me, please,” Balder entreats in a quiet rush, as if afraid he might lose his nerve. He’s removed his own cape and his mail but other that remains fully clothed himself.

 

“Alright,” Loki manages, unsettled by this path of events, “if you like.”

 

He’s used to faceless lust and carnal interest. This _piety_ tickles against his skin in a way that makes him shiver suspiciously. He seeks and fights for and steals attention. It’s never just _given_ to him. Let alone piled upon him like an offering.

 

But that’s precisely what Balder is doing. Thankfully his need is great enough Loki doesn’t have to ask him to hurry, but still he undoes laces and straps and removes all of Loki’s layers like he’s unwrapping a present – like the best part is the anticipation as he gets closer to what lies beneath. Loki’s halfway undressed before he can’t stand it anymore and starts tugging insistently at Balder’s clothing as well.

 

He’s tugging Balder’s shirt off his cooperating arms when Balder kisses him again, lips brushing firmly, tongue gently sliding. Loki’s eyes close as he returns the kiss with a passion. His breath goes out of him and doesn’t quite know what happens next, all caught up in the heat and pleasure emanating from within him and outwards.

 

The next thing he knows they’re both naked and he’s thrown himself down onto Balder’s bed, hair spread out behind him in an ebon mockery of a halo as he tugs Balder towards him, eagerly.

 

“You prefer to be taken?” Balder asks softly, reading the situation with a considering glance.

 

Loki stiffens at that, grin fading, the physical longing twisting within him in discomfort as he begins already to gather his defenses. He pushes himself back up onto his elbows, pulling away so he’s not directly under Balder anymore.

 

“Yes.” He turns his head so that he can watch Balder from the side of one sharp, fixated eye. Daring him to say anything – Loki is more than prepared to counter. This wouldn’t be the first time.

 

A lump threatens to form in his throat but he swallows it back down. He knows his preference is unusual for an Asgardian male, caught up as they are as a whole in notions of aggression and superiority. And when he was younger, and not so practiced at being careful, more than a few would-be partners taunted him when they saw how easily he yielded, that he actually enjoyed that position. It’s not fitting for a warrior and less even for a prince.

 

But like always Loki views things from a different and less literal angle than most. He usually feels that when with another man, it is _he_ who is the dominant one from beneath. The other gives in to ardor, losing all senses, while Loki gives and takes exactly what he feels like, controlling everything even as he pretends, smugly, to beg.

 

Balder reacts to the mistrust on his face, startled. “Oh no, I wasn’t judging you,” he swears. “I only wished to be certain that’s what you wanted.”

 

He reaches out. Loki tenses, but not enough to stop him as he touches Loki’s face with both hands. “I want for you to be happy. That’s all.”

 

It sounds too good to be true. Although, he reconsiders – even the way Balder phrased the question, _“You prefer to be taken?”_ wasn’t particularly judgmental. There are worse ways he could’ve said it. Loki’s heard all of them.

 

He nods, surrendering, and Balder moves closer, kneeling next to him as he goes back to pressing his mouth to the side of Loki’s face and neck.

 

There’s a vial of oil somewhere in Loki’s clothing. He makes a gesture, wordless magic, and it jumps to his hand; even as Balder is still holding and kissing him he shifts his legs, rotating his lower body so that he can begin preparing himself.

 

Eventually Balder takes note of what he’s doing. He takes his mouth away and pulls the vial from Loki’s unoccupied hand before he can protest. Balder pours the remaining oil onto two of his own fingers, and then proceeds to help him. Loki sets his jaw, a low pleasured sound drawn from him as Balder’s fingers alongside his circle and press inside of him.

 

He sees Balder staring at him heatedly, watching. Like he wants something but Loki doesn’t know what. _‘I want for you to be happy’_ , he said.

 

“Yes,” Loki tries, “that’s good…like that.” He isn’t just saying empty words; Balder has a deft touch.

 

Happiness instantly blooms on Balder’s face. Loki doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

 

He goes to lie down again on his back again, legs spreading. Hands go to Balder’s hips and he pulls at him, silently entreating. This is what he needs. This is what he wants.

 

And Balder is all too thrilled, even honored, to give it to him.

 

He uses what remains of the oil on his hand to slick down his cock, though his touch is hurried and notably doesn’t linger there for long. And no wonder. Balder is hard, ready, easily just as much as Loki is. His shoulders shake slightly with the effort it takes to keep himself in control.

 

“Don’t hold back,” Loki breathes at him in heady command, as he slides a leg up to catch over Balder’s smooth and muscular thigh. “I want it. I want it all.”

 

Balder actually chokes back a sound at that. But he listens. He sheathes his cock inside Loki in a smooth efficient stroke and begins rocking into him, in tight steady thrusts. Loki clenches his teeth and then lets go, wrapping himself around Balder instead.

 

They don’t speak, save for the language of pure sound, gasps and breaths and the occasional soft moan. Loki lets himself sink into the mattress, pushed there by Balder’s weight as he leans forward, as if being inside of him still isn’t closeness enough. He gently seizes one of Loki’s knees, moving it so it’s more against his own side. When he has air for it he presses more kisses to Loki’s lips.

 

Balder feels Loki’s erection against his stomach, between them, and with his left hand he reaches to stroke him. Loki’s right hand goes intending to bat him away and instead ends up on top of his, the two of them working his cock together.

 

Balder’s other hand goes to hold his where it lays slack against the bed – and Loki lets him. Their fingers entwine and stay there as the rest of their bodies continue moving, swaying and thrusting as they both ride together towards release.

 

Every inch of Loki feels warm, the spreading thick warmth of a fire indoors after a long walk through winter’s cold. That voice inside of him that hasn’t shut up, not once during this whole long ordeal, is speaking so fast and so loud now it’s just like white noise, like no sound at all. Loki is lost in the moment, pure bliss and electricity. It’s all skin and muscle and feel and taste and _almost_ and _yes_ and _Balder_.

 

Balder squeezes his hand especially hard, right before he comes. He makes a sound somewhere between keen and groan that could be nonsense, but could also be Loki’s name.

 

Loki comes a few seconds later, pushed to the brink by the feel of Balder’s collapse inside of him. He gives a short cry of pleasure so acute and sweet it’s almost pain.

 

They stay where they are, both quivering and panting, trying to come back to themselves enough to recover. Finally Loki moves the hand that was around his cock. He wipes it off on the sheets in a dazed motion that’s more about muscle memory now that conscious thought, before pressing it to Balder’s heaving chest and then his face.

 

They still don’t say anything to one another. He just gazes deep into Balder’s eyes, in all their intense perfect, clear blue.

 

It takes Loki a moment to remember that their hands are still together. He feels strange uneasy reluctance as he releases his hold, their fingers sliding apart.

 

Balder moves out of him and leans in briefly so their noses are touching, their foreheads together, lashes fluttering as his eyes close with a smile. Then he rolls over to his side, flopping down on the bed beside Loki, pressing up against his body. Loki instinctively moves to his side as well putting Balder at his back, and before he can get up a forearm slides across his chest, holding him in place as Balder nuzzles him.

 

Loki doesn’t intend to stay. But his body is relaxing, spent and exhausted, that lazy contented feeling that comes after especially vigorous and fulfilling sex. And he feels so comfortable, so warm, so _happy_.

 

He closes his eyes, drifting, unaware of the tiny smile that’s formed on his own face.


	11. Chapter 11

Even if part of him would like to linger in sleep, well-earned and much needed, Loki is too hardwired for paranoia to rest easy in an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar bed.

 

He wakes after only a few hours. In the grey darkness of Balder’s chambers it takes him a moment or so to recall where he is and why; to take note of the body still pressed against his and the arms half-holding him, and shake off enough of his sleepy haze to remember to feel uncomfortable by so much proximity.

 

He cautiously moves Balder’s arm off of him, sliding forward slowly out of his grasp. Balder breathes steadily and does not start, only pressing his face down further into his pillows, evidently committing himself as fully and ardently to slumber as he does everything else: drink, food, battle…love.

 

Loki moves to the edge of the bed and touches a hand idly to his own temple just above one eye, then reaches to smooth his hair. And that’s when he realizes.

 

He feels good, of course, vestiges of afterglow still tingling in his body even after a rest. His muscles have the tired and slightly sore sense from being pleasantly exerted.

 

But that’s it. The driving, hot and all-consuming urge he’s had for so long to keep going, the hunger for more sex, the never-satisfied lust…it’s ended. Gone. He feels relaxed, well and truly sated, his desires back to the same casually interested but mostly indifferent level he usually has.

 

Loki allows himself to breath out a quiet sigh of relief.

 

But he knows better than to think of himself as ‘free’. For if the desire has left him, if his cycle has finally ended, then that could only mean…

 

Without looking his hand moves in a detached gesture to press against his still flat stomach.

 

He doesn’t _feel_ any different. But then, he won’t, not for a while at least.

 

There is a lurking sense of unease, if he allows himself to think too much about what’s yet to come. What’s going to happen to him. He steers carefully clear of that for now, for this is neither the time nor place.

 

But for the most he’s somewhat bemused to realize he’s not nearly as upset as he expected to be. All the dread and anxiety he felt – where has it gone to? Perhaps this was merely one of those things where the anticipation was the real torture. Now that it’s done, it’s done. There’s little sense in tormenting himself over it.

 

Maybe he’s too thankful for the end to what he’s _already_ been through, to allow a new source of worry to dampen his relieved joy.

 

He sits there, silently reveling in how it feels to be able to think clearly, to not be constantly on edge. For the first time in months his emotions, his body, his urges and thoughts are no longer strangers to him. If there’s one thing he’s always prized it’s being able to understand himself – even if nobody else can.

 

As Loki moves to rub at a kink in his neck, he wonders what exactly it was that made this possible. Why it is Balder, of all people, was finally able to do the necessary deed.

 

The only thing that comes to mind is that _feelings_ might somehow be involved. Maybe the physical act itself wasn’t enough. Maybe there’s also a link to chemistry, to receptivity. Balder, out of all of Loki’s partners, was the only one that cared for him as something other than an excellent lay. Even for those already close to him, the first attraction was sex, with Loki coming in secondary.

 

And it’s true, even, that this felt different to him than the others. More personal, more pleasurable: the first since he began losing control that he _enjoyed_ himself, instead of wanting to get off and get it over with.

 

Maybe somewhere within, deep in his mind or his body or his soul, there was something that said, _“Yes; this is a man who deserves to have a child”._

 

But it could all be chance, after all. Maybe it was only timing, and Balder had the luck of the draw. He supposes none of it really matters.

 

He gets up from the bed and starts collecting his clothing. The sound of movement, however, stops him.

 

He looks back to find that Balder has awakened after all and is watching him with earnest eyes remarkably bright in the dark.

 

“You weren’t just going to leave without saying anything, were you?” Balder murmurs. His face and voice are still sleepy, but he still manages to gaze up at Loki with curiosity and optimism and the faintest trace of reproach.

 

Loki sets down the garment he had seized, letting leather and fabric slide between his fingers. “I really can’t stay,” he replies quietly, as much a reminder as it is anything. They both know he should be gone before anyone stands the chance of seeing him.

 

Balder half-stretches an arm toward him. “Just for a little while?” he offers. The gentle smile on his face is beseeching.

 

Loki can feel himself giving in as it happens. “Well, alright.”

 

He returns to the place where he lay, turning slightly in towards Balder as he positions his head comfortably on the pillow. Balder pulls the blankets around them both, tucking them in tight.

 

Loki has no intention to fall asleep again. He won’t even close his eyes. But Balder doesn’t seem to mind, or notice. He nudges his face against Loki’s shoulder, partially using him as a cushion, as one arm goes across Loki’s waist and the other slides beneath him to meet in the small of his back. He makes a noise that isn’t quite a purr, more a hum.

 

The exhale of Balder’s breath drifts as a faint warmth across Loki’s chest. He can feel Balder’s eyelashes graze the underside of his chin when he blinks. He is torn between fidgeting and letting himself enjoy this.

 

It’s a strange sensation, one he’s not entirely comfortable with. He does not know what to do with love, given so freely with seemingly no expectation in return, from so unlikely a source. Least of all because he feels that to accept would require opening himself up a bit as well, lowering his defenses. He dislikes giving things away, knowing it could be used against him later. Time and repetition have taught him to keep everything inside and held close to his heart, guarding it as a dragon guards its treasure. And with just as much venom, and untrusting fear.

 

Loki does not embrace Balder back. He can’t bring himself to, even if there is a tiny part of him that would like to do so. But Balder does not seem to mind this either.

 

It seems he’s the type that is made happy by being allowed to hold someone; that that’s enough for him, whether or not they respond.

 

When Loki leaves, Balder says to him, “We’ll see each other again? I mean, obviously we will, but…” He trails off, cheeks coloring slightly, and his gaze drops down pensively. “You know what I mean.”

 

“Yes, I do. And, as for that,” Loki pauses. He doesn’t so much consider it as briefly wonder what it is that he’s doing. “We’ll see.”

 

It’s not a flat-out dismissal of the possibility – which they both know would have been Loki’s far more likely response.

 

Balder’s smile is a warm, overjoyed thing.

 

Numbly, feeling lightheaded and somewhat conflicted within, Loki stands there and allows Balder to kiss him sweetly across the knuckles in goodbye.

 

*

 

The passage of three weeks has brought no alteration to Loki’s figure, but his condition is already beginning to affect him in other subtle but distinctive ways. Most notably it plays havoc with his appetites: some mornings he feels too sick to eat anything at all, while others he is ravenous.

 

Though he’s confident in the fact that no one else suspects or has even noticed anything, he can feel the eyes of the All-Father and his queen weigh heavily upon him, keenly watching. No doubt by now his return in routine and behavior to mostly normal combined with the other signs has made what’s come to pass obvious to them.

 

The question has yet to be asked. But the instant it is, Loki sees no point in denying the answer.

 

Trained as he is in mastering his energies he can feel it whenever he touches upon his life’s force, small and peculiar but unmistakably there: there is _life_ growing inside of him.

 

He knows not yet what shape it will take. He could, if he desired: there are charms for divination, both the sort used often by women and midwives, and the more arcane powerful kind that are difficult and not widely-known but that of course Loki has mastered. But right now he prefers not to know. He finds solace in the indefinite. The possibility looms that he will birth some monster, but as long as he knows not for certain then it cannot fully haunt him.

 

A few weeks isn’t much time, but Loki has been kept very busy. He has a lot of damage to repair.

 

Hogun and Fandral are the ones most easily taken care of. They are Asgardian men, warriors, and if an offense is taken it does not have to be redressed directly to be forgiven. All it takes is a subtle sign.

 

Loki makes a point to speak to Fandral directly when next they are in each other’s presence, the same as he would if nothing had ever happened: joking and snide but notably lighthearted. Fandral reacts at first with surprise, but he’s not suspicious and seems more relieved than anything. He’s never the type that sits well with a grudge; it’s much easier on him to be given the excuse to let go of it. Once Loki has offered this then far as he’s concerned, all is well. He acts jovially and carelessly towards him once more, and if he ever wondered what precisely it was that caused their tumble to happen, he seems content to let it remain a mystery.

 

Hogun’s complaint with Loki was less about what happened between them personally and more the grievance he’d witnessed stewing between his comrade and the prince. As soon as Fandral is taken care of, then so too is Hogun. No doubt he’s filed this away as one more thing to be wary about Loki, but as long as he’s not outwardly hostile then Loki can live with that.

 

Amora and Lorelei he doesn’t speak to in person. Instead he sends them separate letters. Eloquent, artfully-worded letters full of the most penitent and respectful apologies – with careful phrases inserted in a few places designed to say the worst possible thing without looking at all like he intends to.

 

It’s actually quite crucial he stir up their ire to the point they feel so provoked they have to act against him immediately. It serves him best to have the wrath of the sorceresses over and done with; he can’t have them wait a few months more and come after him when he’ll potentially be in less of a position to deal with them.

 

But after the letters are delivered, he feels absolutely confident he’ll be seeing whatever form of vengeance they decide to wreak within a fortnight. Probably less.

 

And, as he also made a point to infer in each missive that he’d already spoken to the _other_ sister and _she_ had forgiven him first – there’s a chance they may turn on each other, or at least not have forces joined against him anymore.

 

It’s one of the hardest to accomplish deceptions of all, to act as though one is wholeheartedly trying to convince a person to do one thing and in the process ‘accidentally’ induce them to do the opposite, but the level of proficiency required only makes it to Loki a delicious challenge. And pulling off the trick makes him feel so very pleased with himself.

 

It’s even more distinct, how much during these months he was so frustratingly distracted that he _missed_ being him.

 

After all other matters have been taken care of however, there still remains Sif. And she is not to be brushed off lightly, ire dismissed, like Fandral or Hogun or Amora or Lorelei.

 

There are several ways Loki could try to take care of this. He could come up with some elaborate story, outlandish but well-crafted enough to make it impossible to dismiss entirely as a lie. He could show her a cold façade and outright tell her he tricked her into lying with him; the explanation enough to settle her stomach if severing their camaraderie in the process. He could find something worse to do to her, making her angry at him for new reasons and forgetting the old one completely.

 

Instead, Loki decides to try something that’s incredibly rare for him. He chooses to apologize.

 

He has to sneak up on Sif when she’s alone again, which probably does him no favors. But it’s the only chance he has of getting her to speak with him.

 

“I did you a great wrong, Lady Sif,” he gets out before she has time to hurl a knife at his head, and that opening is enough to peak her curiosity. She listens, if with narrowed eyes and a scowl. “We both know that. And unfortunately, I can offer no suitable explanation for it. Not because you don’t deserve any – but because there truly isn’t one.”

 

“What could you have possibly been thinking?” she demands, angry.

 

Loki’s mouth twists. “I wasn’t.”

 

Sif draws herself up with a huff and spins to leave, the tail of her dark hair swinging like a whip. Loki stretches out a hand towards her, reflexive.

 

“Sif – I’m _sorry_.” That and the pleading, mournful tone he speaks in stops her dead in her tracks. “Really I am. It was…careless, what I did.” At the glare she shoots over her shoulder, he amends, “It was idiotic. I don’t regret what we had together, but it should not have been so lightly taken, under such circumstances. And I shouldn’t have ignored you after.”

 

He draws in a breath quietly, his hands folding together, pensive eyes not quite meeting her face. “I do not think so little or lowly of you as my actions might have indicated. I swear it. If anything, the opposite is true.”

 

For a long tense moment Sif considers him. At last she says, severely, “If in the name of the vows we took together as battle-mates only, I forgive you.”

 

The pause she takes is sharp and full of bitter regret.

 

“We will never be able to be lovers, now. It will be some time before I can even decide if we’ll ever again be friends.”

 

Loki nods, accepting this. “That’s a fair decision. And your right to make.”

 

Sif gives him one last heated look, her lips set into a firm line and her face white with effort of restraining emotion, and then she walks away in silence.

 

There’s a pang of sorrow in him but only the ghost of one. It was the best possible outcome, really, and at least the matter is handled.

 

Every last weight has been lifted off his shoulders – save the burden he’ll be carrying for nine months more.

 

The next day his mother invites him to take breakfast alone with her in the gardens. It’s not an irregular ritual of hers to beg such favor of either her sons, but more often than not it means there’s something she wants to discuss with them. And as is fairly frequent, Loki already knows exactly what.

 

Frigga waits until he’s eaten his third roll in a row, each covered by a type of jam he usually hates but can’t seem to get enough of lately, before pointedly going, “Well?”

 

Loki restrains himself from going for another roll, but can’t resist licking some errant jam off his fingertip. “The matter has been taken care of.”

 

“I gathered as much.” Her wry tone fades in favor of a gentle look of consideration. “How are you feeling?”

 

He shrugs with a distracted frown. “Better than I anticipated,” he admits. “Ask me again when I no longer fit into my clothes.”

 

“Oh, you’ll have new complaints much sooner than that,” she remarks in a knowing, almost foreboding manner. Loki feels a slight chill and beats down the urge to ask questions he probably doesn’t really want the answer to. Inquisitively, she continues, “Who is the other parent?”

 

“Someone you would approve of,” is Loki’s evasive answer. He eyes the platter of bacon greedily, though mostly to avoid looking her in the eye.

 

Frigga is never so easily dissuaded, least of all with her children. She hooks her fingers delicately but firmly around Loki’s chin underneath and forces him to turn his face back towards her. She eyes him with her head tilted slightly to one side.

 

“Is there a reason you don’t wish to give me a name?” she asks him directly.

 

Loki hesitates, not entirely sure what to say.

 

He wishes it could be as simple as now that he has what’s needed, he’s done with Balder, but…that isn’t really the case. At all. They’ve met several times since that night, at intervals of a day or two apart at a time. It’s never arranged or spoken of beforehand, but Loki has his habit of being alone and Balder has a knack for finding him when he is.

 

They’ve yet to fuck again, but Loki wouldn’t say they haven’t been intimate with one another. Indeed, the kind of ‘intimacy’ he has with Balder is the sort he’s far more wary about anyone finding out about than he would the fact they shared a bed.

 

In the shadows of an abandoned hallway they whisper to one another so softly that it’s necessary for them to stand pressing into one another – as if there could really be any _need_ for them to speak so low. But Loki quietly revels in the warmth of Balder’s body against his, the solidness of cloth and armor and the occasional softness of skin. He’ll rest a hand on Balder’s shoulder or trace the side of his cheek or occasionally move it to the back of his head, to cup his neck and thread his hair. Balder’s hands usually go to Loki’s hips or his ribs, holding him as much as he can without pulling him into a full hug, before breaking away to caress Loki’s face and forehead.

 

Or if Loki is in the library Balder will come and sit beside him, on a low window seat or a small couch; their knees brushing and then resting against one another permanently, Balder’s head bending in closer so he can pretend to look at whatever Loki’s reading when all he really wants to do is lean his face on Loki’s shoulder. Loki gives him a knowing smirk, rolling his eyes, but he never stops him.

 

It’s far too comfortable, too familiar a position. If anyone happened to find them there’d be some awkward explaining to do. But no one ever does.

 

Sometimes if the book Loki has is small enough he can position it against his lap easily, or heady enough he infrequently turns the pages, Balder will hold his other hand.

 

Loki is fairly certain he’s not, in fact, being courted, but he’s beginning to think this might be what having it done feels like. Balder presses his kisses more frequently to Loki’s throat or his wrist or his eyelids, to the point where one actually landing on his lips gives him a tingling flush all over, and he waits for such a kiss with anxious anticipation. That or he gets fed up with waiting, and steals one – which Balder certainly never seems to mind.

 

It’s delicate, wondrous, and completely unlike anything Loki’s ever had or expected to have. All full of shared gazes and simple caresses and half-embraces carried out in a warm quiet that speaks somehow much louder than words.

 

Loki doesn’t want to like it, because he feels this is the sort of thing that he isn’t supposed to be capable of liking. Something he isn’t supposed to have. It isn’t permitted, this kind of happiness; not for him.

 

But he does like it. He likes it so very much, able to soak in his enjoyment even as beneath lingers suspicion and fear.

 

 _What are you doing to me?_ he thinks at times, when Balder’s holding him close, saying words into his ear that spell ‘love’ clearly even if they’re written with other letters. _How can this be happening?_

 

And he worries that this might be another trick of his body – do Frost Giants bond with their mates perhaps, as a way of ensuring the offspring won’t be abandoned?

 

But he doesn’t dare ask. Not only because it’d mean confessing how he feels, but because if he’s right that means this isn’t real. As cynical as he is, he’d rather maintain ignorance than have that truth. He wants it so badly to be _real._

 

All the fair and alluring maidens that grace Asgard’s golden hallways would do anything in a heartbeat to have Balder the Bright, who they feel sure one of them is destined to have. But they can’t have Balder, because Balder belongs to Loki. He’s _his_.

 

His to keep, his to treasure. His to be swooned over and held by and praised. His to be loved by. In all of the Nine Realms, only he possesses Balder’s love.

 

It’s intoxicating, giddy-making even. And Balder is so valiant and traditional in his ardor. He even sends Loki love notes. Little folded up squares of parchment sealed with wax without a signet, though inside he always signs his name with a flourish. They’re formulaic and expected, filled with florid descriptions of Loki’s beauty and heated paragraphs broken up by bad similes.

 

Loki likes receiving them, and can spend hours groaning and laughing over one with a fond smile.

 

A few times Balder has even attempted writing him poetry. Terrible, insipid poetry. Loki took great enjoyment out of taking ink to one and sending it back to Balder full of crossing-outs and corrective notes on his spelling, grammar, poor rhymes and faulty stanzas.

 

Balder takes it all in stride, and interprets Loki’s taunting as simply another form of affection.

 

Which, if Loki’s being honest with himself, it mostly is.

 

But it’s one thing to keep Balder as his secret treasure. It’s another thing entirely to show even a small grain of that to somebody else. To share it, to open himself to judgment.

 

Loki clears his throat and says, “I just don’t want to make things difficult, that’s all.”

 

Frigga continues gazing into his eyes, waiting, letting him know by silence that it’s an unacceptable answer.

 

He sighs, and this time he looks away. “In truth, I haven’t even told him about this yet,” he murmurs – which _is_ true, even if it’s not the most relevant part. “I’d rather not have you confront him.”

 

“You think I have so little tact?” his mother remarks, offhand. “But no matter; you’re right. He should hear about this from you.”

 

Loki drums his fingers on the tabletop. “But I have yet to decide whether I will be keeping the child,” he points out, frowning. “Is it entirely necessary he be told at all?”

 

Frigga’s eyes widen with soft intensity. “Yes, Loki,” she says in insistence. “He absolutely should be told. No matter what else happens, a parent deserves to know the existence of their own child. Whether or not they are expected to play a hand in raising it.”

 

He shifts uneasily, but knows that she’s ultimately probably right. He’ll be keeping it a secret from so many anyway; it would be tiring to try keeping it from Balder as well.

 

And if finding out his paramour is having a child by him is the sort of thing that would cause him to lose Balder’s love…well it’s best he get it over with, as quickly as possible.

 

“Yes, all right.” Loki reaches for his goblet. “I’ll do my best to tell him before the month is out.”

 

Frigga stares at him in clear-cut disapproval. It bristles against his skin so strongly he almost chokes on his water.

 

“I will talk to him about it before the end of the week,” he tries again, hesitant.

 

She smiles beautifully, beaming. “Very good.” Still smiling, she changes the subject. “By the by. I had a conversation a few days past, with Lady Sigyn’s mother. She had _much_ to discuss with me, it turns out.”

 

“Oh. Ah.” Privately Loki can’t help feeling he did Sigyn a favor by ridding her of her ‘virtue’. Now she’s free to have a little fun, pick up some skills that whoever she does wind up marrying will likely be grateful for.  He knows better than to say as much to the queen though. “About that-”

 

“It was very careless of you, my son. And not at all kind to the poor girl.” She frowns at him, disappointed. “And I had such hopes of having her for a daughter-in-law one day.”

 

“It’s probably for the best, wouldn’t you agree?” Loki says somewhat snidely. He makes a vague gesture in the direction of his stomach. “I mean, considering.”

 

Frigga’s frown takes on a different note. “You cannot help what has happened to you. It’s your nature. That doesn’t mean you should give up all hope of having a true family one day.”

 

“It doesn’t seem fair to any maid of Asgard,” Loki replies, his words coming out in a heated mutter, “to encumber her with marriage to a Jotun. To a husband who might be at a moment’s notice compelled to mate and breed like an animal.”

 

His mother reaches out to seize his hand tight.

 

“Whether you marry or have legitimate heirs is ultimately your own decision, my winter’s child,” Frigga observes, “but I only pray that one day you find someone who will love you in spite of the way you insist on seeing yourself.”

 

*

 

The weight of his mother’s wish hanging over his head, Loki retreats once more to the privacy and sanctity of his room. Still dressed he lays on his bed, stretched out with hands knit over his stomach as he gazes at the ceiling.

 

His life, he knows, was never destined to not be complicated. But he wishes just for once it could find ways to be trying that were not painful as well.

 

Almost against his will, his eyes drift to his belly.

 

He wonders how much longer it will be before it starts to round out, before he starts to see that telltale curve.

 

Already he’s been having bad dreams in which something hideous breaks out of him. A monster, sometimes even worse than being a Jotun: half-dead, or with too many limbs, or covered in fangs and fur, or twisting like a snake. Even though he’s spent all his existence as an Asgardian and thinking himself one, it’s hard to imagine he could give birth to anything pleasant. He’s a being made all out of shadows and lies.

 

But then, he remembers, this isn’t only his child. It’s Balder’s child. Formed by the two of them, out of whatever it is that they have together.

 

And how could one such as Balder, perfect and beautiful as he is, manage to sire anything ugly?

 

Loki removes one hand from his stomach and presses the other in a light half-circle, sending out a careful tendril of energy.

 

The still mindless, forming existence within him sends out a lively curious touch back. He feels it, the mystic equivalent to a probing finger reaching out to meet his.

 

His breath catches and he makes a sound perilously close to a sniffle, even as a smile somehow appears on his face.

 

 _Am I going to fall in love with you, too?_ Loki thinks in desperation. _I don’t know if I can stand that._

 

His ruminations are interrupted by the sound of a fist hammering on his door.

 

So much for privacy and sanctity. Tilting his head back, Loki groans, “Thor, go away!” Of course it’s his brother - who else could it be? He knows none other who knocks like a battering ram.

 

“Let me in, Loki,” Thor insists in a shout. “I will have words with you!”

 

He could very well leave him out there but it’s far easier to just deal with him. With a sound of frustration, Loki waves a hand. The door flies open heavily and Thor storms in without missing a beat.

 

“What is it?” Loki shifts so he’s sitting up with one leg bent at the knee, turning his head to gaze at him in a mixture of annoyance and distant interest. “I can’t recall that I have been up to anything especially deceitful as of late.”

 

“Openly, no. If anything you have been especially well-behaved.” Thor’s eyes narrow at him as he gets close and comes to a stop. “But I have noticed some things. Things that are beginning to pile up.”

 

“Oh dear,” Loki quips, noting the furrowed wrinkle to Thor’s brow and the heavy frown behind his beard. “Have you been thinking again?”

 

Thor ignores this. “First, there was your dispute with our friends-”

 

“What, this again?” Loki says, impatient. “I sorted that.”

 

“Yes, it seems that you have. _Somehow_. Despite Sif, Hogun _and_ Fandral all being angered by you – and even now, _none_ of you will tell me what occurred!” Thor gestured wildly with his fists. “And you have been acting ill but refusing to admit to it, and there has been word that Amora has been spotted near to the palace, and I’ve heard that Mother made a generous gift to the parents of Lady Sigyn for no official reason that she will give, and it’s known that Father spent a short time some weeks ago walking the halls at night in the guise of invisibility; and I know not what any of it means, brother, but I _know_ it has something to do with you!”

 

Loki pulls both knees to his chest in a fit of nervousness, which he tries to pass off as cool nonchalance. “You would blame me for every random occurrence, then? Perhaps next you will accuse me of being the force keeping the moon in the sky.”

 

“Do not play games with me, Loki.” Thor’s teeth are set. “Not with this. I will have an explanation.”

 

“I do know how you hate to hear this, brother, but you aren’t king yet,” Loki grates at him stiffly, eyes heated as he shakes his head. “You have no right to command me.”

 

“And you have no right to hide things from me!” Thor yells.

 

Loki pushes up from his bed, standing so as to stare back at him with as much intensity. “I have every right in the world!” he shouts, stepping forward to look Thor dead in the eyes. “I have a _life_ , you know.”

 

He scoffs, pulling back with a look of distaste: “A life outside of being the younger brother to the mighty Thor.”

 

Thor’s temper has always been lightning, quick to strike and then quick to disappear. And he is visibly shaken by having Loki rise to match his gall. He switches tactics.

 

“Please,” he entreats, gaze confused but no less focused. “There was a time we never kept secrets from one another. I know…we are men now, not boys, and those days are long beyond us.” And for a moment he does sounds genuinely pained, as if a part of him could long for those simpler times again. “But if there is something wrong, something bothering you, I would like to know.”

 

Loki turns his back to him, hands going to clutch at his temples. “You really think that you would like to know?” he demands. “ _Anything?_ No matter what?”

 

“Yes,” Thor maintains boisterously, “of course! I would!”

 

Something inside of Loki snaps. It’s less of a dam breaking; more like a latch that’s been overused cracking after having been slammed shut one too many a time. But still, it happens.

 

“Fine. I will tell you then.”

 

He goes back to his bed and throws himself down, settling in.

 

“I am not really your brother by blood, but a Frost Giant foundling that Odin came across at the end of the war and kept,” he states, frank and completely without inflection. “And I slept with Balder. We may be lovers now, I’m not entirely sure. And also, I am pregnant with his child.”

 

A minor epileptic fit seems to be breaking out across Thor’s face. His lips, eyebrows and even nose are all twitching as he tries to figure out how to react to such an overwhelming and outrageous confession.

 

“Very funny, Loki,” he finally manages to spit out.

 

Loki turns his head to gaze at him tiredly.

 

“It isn’t a joke, Thor. Not one word.” He indicates a nearby chair. “You had better sit down. I’ll try to explain.”

 

For once Thor does as he says, without one word of complaint. Or any words at all, for that matter.

 

There are some details that Loki leaves out, of course, such as how well and truly bad things got when he was in the midst of being in heat, and he skips out entirely on the finer details of what has been going on between him and Balder. These things are not Thor’s to know. Indeed, he thinks it would make his brother more uncomfortable than gratified to hear of them. But outside of that, he tells all.

 

Thor is completely silent the entire time. When Loki finishes, he sits in silence a few minutes more, staring down blankly at his own hands.

 

At some point he removed Mjolnir from his belt and now has it in his grip before his face, holding fast to the familiar weapon for reassurance the way a child might cling to a toy.

 

At last, he speaks. “Should we put off my coronation?” he offers feebly. For Thor, his voice has become almost comically timid and small. “Would that…would that be a good idea?”

 

Loki almost smiles, understanding the question for what it is – a baffled Thor going with his first instinct, and therefore casting around for a way in which he can help.

 

“No. Things are most convenient the way they are, actually,” Loki muses. “I should still be flat enough by then that I can appear in public wearing the same armor. And the period after your ascension is no doubt to be turbulent; any regime change is. There’ll be no shortage of chaos for me to slip away in, excuses for my needing to absent myself, when my condition becomes too difficult to hide.”

 

It’s bizarre, all these things that he would never have expected in his life to have to think about, that all of a sudden he is.

 

Thor is staring at him, mouth set in an uneasy line, his eyes shining with troubled emotion.

 

“I can’t believe that all of you, our entire family, were worrying about this and struggling with it, and all the while you left me in the dark,” he exclaims.

 

“Perhaps they didn’t want to worry you,” Loki offers, uneasy. “And I couldn’t say anything. Not to you. I…I didn’t know how you would react.”

 

“I would have done anything in my power to help you, that’s how I would have reacted.” Thor lets go of Mjolnir to place one hand on Loki’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “I do not care that you are Jotun, or that now you must have a child because of it, or anything else – none of that can change that you are my brother, and I love you,” he fiercely declares.

 

Loki manages a smile, but gives no verbal response. He can’t speak. There are too many emotions in his throat.

 

Thor gives a slightly broken chuckle. “I admit, this is – a lot for me to take in. But ultimately, I could never doubt that I would feel for you the same. And I would hope that you couldn’t doubt it as well.”

 

He takes his hand away from Loki and goes to stand.

 

But as he’s on the verge of moving away, Loki suddenly shoots out to grab his arm, just above the wrist.

 

“You will be a good king, Thor,” he tells him, staring up fervently into his brother’s eyes. It’s the best expression of thanks he knows how to give.

 

Thor grins, softly, and pats Loki’s hand. “Thank you. But I hope to always have you at my side and guarding my back. For when you aren’t creating trouble, you seem to have a knack for getting us out of it.”

 

Loki smiles back at him weakly. “I will do my best.”

 

There’s nothing he can do to stop Thor taking the throne, not now. He’s resigned himself to it for weeks.

 

But for the first time, he allows himself to try and have a little faith in his elder brother. Thor will not be a perfect king, not at first; but who knows. Maybe the weight of a crown and some experience balancing the needs of a kingdom will cool his temper and force him to swallow his pride a bit.

 

Thor is still childish, arrogant and hungry for battle. But beneath it all he has a good heart, and he does have a way of rising to the occasion when pressed.

 

If he can learn to accept having a Frost Giant for his brother, then maybe Asgard stands a chance with him as its king after all. Especially with his clever brother around to keep him from doing anything particularly stupid.

 

For the first time in a long time, Loki allows himself to look toward the future with hope.


	12. Chapter 12

Loki is not one for putting things off. When he delays with an action, it is usually because he’s waiting for the right moment to arrive, the perfect opportunity. Dragging his heels with something necessary, even if it’s unpleasant, is not at all like him.

 

But in spite of his promise to his mother he waits to tell Balder. He waits, for three days more.

 

He and Balder don’t actually see each at any point during this period. That’s no result of avoidance: despite his rank Balder still puts in on patrols like a common soldier, and for the next few weeks he’s stationed with a troop along the edges of Svartalfheim. His time around the palace is rare.

 

His absence is no excuse, however, and Loki knows better than to make it one. If he wishes to speak with Balder all he need do is send word to meet him and presumably, the other would come.

 

If Loki had any distant hope that absence might cool his own infatuations, he’s proved wrong. He finds himself thinking idly of Balder’s caresses with a pang in his heart. His fingers curl reflexively, as if longing for another hand to hold.

 

He wanders and walks about, restless, afraid if he stays in one place too long he might be caught daydreaming.

 

He sleeps soundly but in short periods, both during the day and night.

 

Often he dreams, which until recently was rare for him. He dreamed during childhood as children always do but as he grew older, more rational, more bitter, his dreams faded away. Occasionally he had nightmares, but never dreams, the vague nor the pleasant. It was as if even in slumber his mind refused to allow him farfetched optimistic hopes.

 

But these days it seems his head is full of clouds. Whenever he closes his eyes something is waiting for him; sometimes the bad dreams, born out of his fear of the uncertain future. More often they’re strange, insubstantial things, only staying with him in glimpses upon waking, but they’re not unpleasant and always leave him feeling slightly warm.

 

Loki doesn’t know what to make of it. Whether this change should be blamed on his dalliances with Balder, or the presence of the not-yet babe growing inside of him. Either could be at fault.

 

The third evening he retreats to a balcony near the wing housing the royal chambers, intending to sit and look at the stars. Instead he curls within a blanket on a bench and dozes.

 

The dream he has takes on a fairytale quality. Something about being trapped in a tower of ice that fits him like a tomb, unable to move, unable to speak. But Balder appears, shining brightly, and starts climbing the tower to rescue him, chipping away at the ice with his hands. Or maybe the light emanating from Balder is also a source of heat? For the ice begins to melt.

 

It’s a bit too whimsical for Loki’s tastes. He manages to wake himself out of sheer protest, and sits there grumpily rubbing his eyes with one palm as he tries to brush the remaining clouds away.

 

He isn’t alone. He goes stiff as soon as he realizes this, stilling.

 

After a moment he turns his head.

 

The All-Father stands a few feet away, acting as though he’s completely ignorant to Loki’s presence, though that obviously isn’t the case. Hands clasped behind his back he stands with head tilted upward, gazing out distantly at the night sky.

 

Loki wonders if the king has been waiting there as he slept, watching him. He wonders what would happen if he just stood up now and walked away.

 

But he doesn’t. He gets to his feet, brushes himself off and moves forward, putting him and the All-Father in the same line if with no small amount of distance between them.

 

“How are you feeling, my son?” Odin asks softly, having to turn his head completely since Loki has put himself on the side of his missing eye.

 

Loki’s gaze lowers just enough so as to not be accused of avoiding his completely. “I am well enough, my king,” he responds, without emotion, dutiful. There’s enough emphasis on his choice of address to be significant, though it could be claimed as accidental.

 

Sensing the repressed hostility in his tone, Odin gives an exhale that is not quite a sigh. Still, he says, “I am glad to hear of it.”

 

Loki’s not foolish enough to think the All-Father doesn’t know what’s happened – either his wife told him, or he’s been keeping watch enough to have picked up on the signs for himself.

 

He manages an airy tone that carries an undercurrent of the snide: “Should I inquire as to my lord’s health as well?”

 

“No need,” is Odin’s surprisingly indifferent retort. “I will not be king of Asgard for much longer, will I?” He steps forward to go to the very edge of the balcony, hands rising to rest on the decorative wall. “So I suppose what happens to me after that, it does not really matter.”

 

Loki feels an uncomfortable twist in his stomach of surprise. The All-Father is old, there’s no denying that. Loki knows it has been a long time since the Odinsleep last took him – perhaps too long. But still, what he’s suggesting…

 

“I would not go so far as to say that,” Loki manages, conflicted. He hates Odin for lying to him, and doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive him. But he still cares for him as his father. No matter how much he might like to fight against that feeling.

 

“Oh?” Odin replies, offhand. He doesn’t appear to expect a response. Instead he contemplates the stars again awhile in silence before breaking it to ask, “What do you know of the Norns?”

 

Loki is momentarily thrown by this apparent non sequitur. “Enough, I suppose,” he thinks out loud. “I have seen a few of them in person at times, which is more than can be said for most that dwell in Asgard.”

 

Odin nods, taking that in. “Their order is devoted entirely to the collection of wisdom, and the mastery of sorcery. It’s said they alone can look to anywhere in the past, the present or future without limitation. They have access to powers such as cannot be trusted with just anyone.” He pulls away from the balcony, though he doesn’t turn to face Loki. “Because of this, they take a vow of secrecy – a very serious and thorough vow. Any secret ever given to their protection, they will never reveal to outsiders, under any circumstances. They alone out of all that lives and breathes can be relied on to completely hold their tongues.”

 

With the same factual indifference, Odin adds, “Because of this, it’s not uncommon for young women who find themselves in a state where they may wish to be hidden away for several months to go to the Norns. There they are received and cared for, and may trust that their secrets are safely kept.”

 

Loki blinks, absorbing that with surprised but immediate understanding. “Thank you, Father. For the…information.”

 

“I thought it might be of use to you someday,” Odin returns.

 

After a few moments of silence more, he finally turns to look at Loki.

 

“So. _Balder_. Balder the Bright,” he muses, knowing.

 

Loki feels a cold shock. And then he grits his teeth to hold back a groan. “Thor has a big mouth,” he mutters darkly, sullen.

 

“Yes, because there was never a time when you ran to your mother or I to inform on him,” Odin notes dryly.

 

Loki bristles under that all-too truthful observation. “I long outgrew that when we were children!” he snaps. “Besides, this is something that’s none of his business, let alone to tell!”

 

“Whether it is or not, there’s little matter now.” Odin gazes at him. “Still, considering how worried I was for a while…you chose well for the father of your child.”

 

Loki’s voice fades at that, unsettled by what seems to be approval.

 

“I didn’t really _choose_ , though,” he has to point out. “It just…happened.”

 

His father turns to take his leave from Loki. It isn’t until his back his already to him that he speaks again.

 

But for a moment, just as he turned, Loki could have sworn that he saw a smile.

 

“If that is the way you would prefer to think of it, my named son,” the All-Father remarks lightly. “So be it.”

 

*

 

Rather abruptly, Loki decides he’s being foolish. Waylaying Balder finding out by a matter of days can make no real difference in the long run. All it’s doing is prolonging his own uncertainty.

 

There are two things that can happen. Either Balder will take the news well, or he will not. If does take it well, then all worrying was for naught. If he does not – Loki will be no worse off than he once was.

 

He’ll be alone, a state he is not unused to dwelling in. He’ll go to the Norns eventually and birth his child in secret, and find some place it can be safely deposited. If it’s a boy, some distant noble whose household is kept far from Asgard’s palace will be entreated to take it in as a page. If it’s a girl, perhaps the Norns will accept it to be raised as a member of their sisterhood.

 

And if it’s something else entirely, something that resembles more a beast than any Asgardian…he may just leave it, unnamed, to die of exposure.

 

The Norns, after all, aren’t the only ones who know how to swallow something down and never tell.

 

In any case the sooner Balder knows the sooner Loki can make definite plans.

 

And if he drags things out too long he’s starting to run the risk that the All-Father might confront him first, or that Thor in his eagerness will say something by accident, which is – very much _not_ a conversation that Loki wants to see happening. For a multitude of reasons.

 

He sits down and composes Balder a note. Short, with some fond wording, but ultimately to the point. He asks him to come to Loki’s room the next night. He does not mention that they need to _talk_ , for Loki knows in the written word such a phrasing will not go over well. He only says that he would like to see him.

 

He also admits that he misses him. That a few days have turned out to feel like too long since they saw each other last. That he would greatly appreciate Balder’s company.

 

There’s no poetry in the way he writes this, save the inherent eloquence of phrasing Loki always has. But he feels his face heating up even as he commits the sentences to page. The very thought of another ever seeing this note mortifies him. Even such a small confession wrought out of him leaves him feeling exposed, as if he were gushing on at length for a sonnet.

 

He writes it anyway, though, because the words are for Balder, and because they are true.

 

He does not sign it ‘yours’ or ‘with love’ or anything else. He merely signs it ‘Loki’.

 

Then with hands he swears do not shake in the least, he folds it up carefully, and seals it with gold wax.

 

After a moment’s consideration, he affixes his signet to it grandly.

 

He summons a runner, hands him the message, and with lofty indifference tells him it’s to be delivered to Balder the Bright. He waits and gives the messenger a look, just _daring_ him with a smirk to ask, what exactly, Loki Silvertongue could want to be sending a missive to Balder the Bright for.

 

The messenger of course, does not ask. Though the color drains from his face a little as a result of having the second prince look at him that way.

 

To be on the safe side, however, and because it amuses him and would not be at all unexpected, Loki tells him that the note’s been enchanted so that, should anyone other than Balder open or attempt to read it, a horrible curse will befall them.

 

Loki watches him as he leaves – he’s holding the message at a distance from his body and eyeing it as if afraid any second it might writhe with snakes and attack him.

 

It brightens Loki’s day up considerably.

 

It’s only a matter of hours before he gets a response from Balder. The returning messenger is panting; apparently Balder told him to hurry. Loki puts a coin in his hand and shoves him out the door, already tearing the paper open.

 

Balder’s happiness and eagerness fairly leap off the page. He says that he would be very glad to see Loki, that he’s missed his company very much as well (he gets as lyrical as he must have had time to), and promises that he will be there the next evening the very instant he gets back from patrol.

 

Short as it is, Loki rereads the note several times over, soaking up every trace he can from the page of the presence that is _Balder._ Then he puts it away inside the small wooden chest, inside a locked drawer, where he has been keeping all the letters and poems.

 

He should be anxious. Instead, the next day finds him in a noticeably good mood. He eats heartily at breakfast and doesn’t bother disguising it, the way he has been.

 

“I say, you seem to be quite in the cheery, energetic spirit this morning,” Fandral notes, eyebrows going up a bit as Loki actually reaches across the table in his zeal to get another slice of steak and kidney pie.

 

“Not up to something, are you?” Sif questions more darkly. She rotates her knife in one hand as if it were a dagger.

 

Loki almost chokes as he swallows down what turned out to be a too large bite of food. “Good night’s sleep,” is the only response he gives, absently.

 

Sif’s expression doesn’t relax any and beside her, Hogun folds his arms with a distrustful frown.

 

Either in obliviousness to his glowering comrades or in an effort to make up for them, Volstagg brightly suggests, “Well if that’s the case then, why don’t you join us at the ring today for a bit of sparring? It’s been too long, really, and your presence is sorely missed.”

 

Of course Loki’s been avoiding the ring, and the training grounds as well. While he’s quite experienced at dodging hits, one chance blow could have severe consequences right now.

 

But before he can open his mouth, Thor whips his head around and shouts _“No!”_ in alarmed objection.

 

In response to the stunned stares that gets him, he backtracks slightly with a laugh and a grin, “I mean – I think my brother is capable of deciding for himself when he wishes to join us for fighting, Volstagg. He should not feel pressured into it! Don’t you agree?”

 

Volstagg gives a confused but affirmative mumble, while everyone else goes on looking at Thor like he sprouted a second head.

 

Loki shoots Thor a silent glare: _Too much, brother. Too much._

That evening Loki takes a bath, then redresses in one of his nicer but more easily removable outfits. His chamber is already tidy of course but he straightens it up a bit, putting away all traces of half complete spell work on his desk, making sure there are no lingering remnants of dust, and using a charm to polish all the mirrors and metal surfaces until they shine. His bed is already made, but he remakes it. And then after some thought, makes it again, this time with the blankets and pillows ready to be removed easily.

 

There’s a small table with two matching chairs, perfect for sitting in and having a conversation. Loki moves the furniture around so these are at the center of the room, a comfortable place close to the door but also near the fireside. It looks too bare, so he finds a scarf to drape it with as an improvised tablecloth. Then he dresses it up a bit more with some candles and a nice vase of fern leaves.

 

As almost an afterthought, he sets out a small dish with some candied almonds in it.

 

But as the hours drag by, he ends up eating almost half of them.

 

He tries not to pace. He tries not to fidget. He fails in both regards. As the night grows ever later he becomes more and more fretful. Where could Balder be?

 

Finally it is too late anymore to deny the obvious. Melted candlewax covers the table. The fire has burned down to embers.

 

Balder is not coming.

 

Loki feels too furious with himself to think in distinct words. He just curses over and over. He can’t believe he would be so foolish, so gullible, to even believe that-

 

In a gesture he douses out all the lights in the room. He undresses in the dark.

 

He focuses on the anger, the self-loathing, because it is so much preferable to tears.

 

Hands clenched into fists and shoulders trembling, he climbs into bed.

 

*

 

Loki isn’t sure how much later it is when he’s jolted awake by noises.

 

Specifically crashing, thumping and whispered cursing: the sound of a man in armor banging into unseen objects in the dark.

 

Loki sits bolt upright, sleep banished from his eyes in a moment, blankets pooled around his waist. He starts to raise a hand to summon light but then realizes there’s no need: there’s dim illumination provided by what appears to be a flickering torch.

 

“Loki?” He freezes as he recognizes Balder’s voice. “Are you awake?”

 

“Balder?” Loki squints. “What are you…?”

 

Balder comes closer to stand at the side of his bed, the burning torch upheld in one arm.

 

Once he’s near it’s possible to make out the mournful look on his face; and also the fact that the front of his cloth shirt is stained in _blood_.

 

Loki’s eyes go wide as he takes him in with disbelief.

 

Balder is still in full traveling armor, right down to his gloves, fur-trimmed blue cape, and helmet. Beneath the metal brim across his forehead his skin is coated in a fine layer of sweat and dirt, hair plastered against his skin. A layer of mud clings to his boots that’s no doubt left footprints all the way through the palace to Loki’s bedside. On a second look, the blood is the wrong color for an Asgardian, so that rules out Balder being the source of it himself. Whatever it was that attacked him, then.

 

And Loki knows he was attacked, not only on account of all the other signs of having been in a battle, but because there’s a fletched arrow jutting out of Balder’s shoulder, embedded what looks to be a hand’s span deep at an angle, right on the side near his collarbone.

 

“I am so sorry that I’m late,” Balder apologizes despondently. “I tried to get here as fast as I could.”

 

Loki raises a hand to point numbly, eyes still very wide. “Did you know you have an _arrow_ in you?”

 

“We were ambushed on the way back,” Balder explains. “Goblins. Didn’t give us too much damage, but it wasn’t easy getting away. That’s why-”

 

“ _That’s_ why it took you so long getting here?” Loki finishes for him, voice rising. “Because you were otherwise occupied _fighting for your life_?” He takes another look at the arrow, at the blood starting to congeal around its shaft. “Have you even been to see a healer yet? You haven’t, have you!”

 

“I didn’t want to tarry any longer,” Balder tells him, sounding perturbed by his outrage. “I’d kept you waiting for so long already.”

 

“Idiot!” Loki exclaims from between clenched teeth. “Suicidal fool!” He cuts off with an aggravated sound, ire too great for words. “Come _here_. Let me do something about that.”

 

Balder moves in obligingly, finding a sconce by the head of the bed for his torch. Loki gives the wound a quick, calculating glance – it’s deep, but it hasn’t hit joint or artery, and it’s in no good place to either leave or push through the other side.

 

He presses his right hand against Balder’s shoulder, fingertips spread, both cauterizing and numbing the injury with magic. His other hand grips the shaft tight around the middle and pulls it free in as smooth a motion he can manage. Balder gives a slight pained sound as the arrow is removed but otherwise holds dutifully still.

 

Once it’s gone he turns his head, tugging his clothes to get a better look at the hole left. “Thank you,” he says to Loki.

 

“Give me a moment and I’ll fix it up completely,” is Loki’s response, completely dismissive. He holds the bloodstained arrow in one hand, eyeing it.

 

He imagines Balder on his way back to Asgard, hacking his way through goblins in his haste to reach his waiting lover. Never minding the danger to his own neck - only that he was running behind schedule. Considering he’s an experienced soldier, Loki tries not to think about the fact that the only reason Balder probably took the arrow in the first place was because he was too distracted.

 

Loki hefts the arrow a bit, feeling its weight, as he takes in its deadly point. _Well at least it wasn’t mistletoe,_ he grimly muses.

 

He looks back up to see Balder watching him with a concerned, perplexed look. “Are you angry with me?”

 

“For being late? No. Not long as you had a perfectly valid excuse.” Loki snaps the arrow in half between his hands, then disintegrates it into nothing, wanting something to take out his vexation on. “For almost getting yourself killed, however…”

 

“I think it’s fair to say that wasn’t really my fault,” Balder returns, mildly.

 

“That is not funny,” Loki hisses. “I can’t believe you ran all the way here, without stopping to tend to yourself, without so much as wiping the blood and sweat off your face. It’s absurd!”

 

He knows he should be flattered – and he is, a little bit. It certainly shows he was wrong about Balder’s level of attentiveness to him. But all the dedicated and romantic impulsiveness in the world can’t make up for that he almost lost the sire of his child. And before Loki even had a chance to _tell_ him about it.

 

Suddenly recalling that, he swallows back the remainder of his anger. In a more calm voice, he goes, “Please. Sit down.”

 

The shift to composure does more to alarm Balder than soothe him, however. “If you’re mad with me, I wish that you would just say it.” He reaches out to seize both of Loki’s hands in his, bringing them close together so that he can bend down and press his lips and face to them. “I am sorry that I worried you, but it was just so important to me that I be by your side.”

 

Loki attempts to pull his hands from Balder’s grasp without actually wrenching them away. “Does that work on the damsels and orphans you usually rescue? Let _go_.” He stops, breathing a sigh. “Balder, please. I have something very important to tell you.”

 

“If it’s that you’re dismissing me from ever seeing you again, I prefer to take the news standing,” Balder says, tone steady even as his blue eyes shine with nervous emotion.

 

“Believe me, that isn’t it. This is something quite different.” Loki reaches to tug off his helmet and tosses it aside to the floor. He stares up to meet Balder’s gaze as he touches him in a gesture that’s half caressing the edge of his face, half an attempt at smoothing his hair. “And for this, I think that you really should be sitting down.”

 

Balder acquiesces, making himself comfortable on the edge of the mattress as Loki moves back to allow him some room.

 

“Now,” Loki pauses to ensure he has Balder’s full attention, voice stern and serious and his eyes unblinking. “There are two things I would like to make clear to you upfront. The first is that you must not ask me _how_.” He raises a finger, trying not to sound as uneasy as he feels. “The second is that what happened was not entirely on purpose.”

 

“Loki, please just tell me,” Balder presses, growing more bemused by the second. “What is it you want to say?”

 

So Loki does tell him.

 

Balder takes it rather well. Which is to say: he doesn’t shout, or grow ill, or immediately leap away from Loki’s side proclaiming him a disgusting fiend. He is certainly very _surprised_ , which is understandable. More than a little confused, though in the sense where he keeps repeating the same questions over and over numbly, obviously needing some time for it to sink in.

 

Eventually once he seems to accept the situation he turns flustered, and begins vehemently blathering his intention to do ‘the right and honorable thing’.

 

“And how do you plan to accomplish that, exactly?” Loki interrupts with mild amusement, not looking up from where he’s in the midst of more fully healing Balder’s shoulder, having decided to take advantage of things as long as he was sitting still. “I don’t think the ‘honorable’ thing is really an option. Unless one of us permanently becomes a woman.” He gives a considering smirk. “Then again, knowing your mother, I bet she’s always wanted a daughter.”

 

Balder flushes, realizing Loki is right. “Well n-no. We could not be wed, I suppose. But I only mean that I…I…”

 

“I am completely certain that you don’t know _what_ you mean,” Loki says almost soothingly, still smirking. “You’re only going with your usual habit, which is to say the most _noble_ thing that pops into your head. But it’s all right. I don’t demand anything of you. I only thought…” And here he falters, much less sure of himself. “I wanted you to know,” he finishes, simple.

 

He can’t quite read the look on Balder’s face, and that worries him. “What do you intend to do?” he asks.

 

“Keep this a secret,” Loki answers, flat. Finished with Balder’s injury he stares down at his hands in his lap. “There’s probably almost nothing left I can do that would shock the court, but this, I – I prefer not for everyone to know. Between glamors and clothing and the simple fact that no one pays much attention to me when I don’t work for it, I can hide this at least a season. After that I’ll leave, under some pretense of errantry for my newly-crowned brother, until I deliver and recover. And then…”

 

“And then?” Balder repeats, gently. “Do you think you’ll keep it?”

 

Loki doesn’t answer at first. He keeps his gaze down as he takes an audibly pained breath, wanting to fight back some of the emotion in his expression.

 

But Balder ruins that by reaching for him, cupping his chin in the curve of his fingers and tilting Loki’s face to meet his earnest eyes.

 

“I don’t know,” Loki confesses, timid and uncertain. “I haven’t yet decided.”

 

Balder pulls him in, wrapping one arm across Loki’s back and the other behind his neck as he presses Loki to him in a soft but encompassing embrace.

 

“Whatever it is you do,” he promises. “If you keep and raise the child, then I’ll help you if I can. If you don’t, then that’s fine. I will still stay by your side, as long as you’ll have me.”

 

Loki’s fingers twine in the links of Balder’s mail shirt, and he leans forward so as to put his face against Balder’s chest, eyes desperately wide and pulse in his throat. He can feel the shape of Balder’s muscle and his stomach. He can smell him, almost taste him, even under the grime.

 

“You really are _too_ good,” he murmurs, trying without much success to make it sound like a joke. “You are. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

 

“I believe you did,” Balder remarks, and Loki can tell by his voice that he’s smiling. “Though it was under very different circumstances.”

 

Loki gives a little broken laugh. Overwrought as he is, he comes perilously close to making a declaration. “I thought-” And then he stops himself, bringing the words back in with choking cough.

 

Balder releases him only so that they can change positions. With his legs to one side Balder sits on the bed and holds Loki so that his back is against Balder’s front, his chin resting on Loki’s shoulder with face next to his, arms wrapped around Loki’s torso.

 

“You’re carrying my child,” Balder says softly, and whether he somehow knew what Loki was about to say or is stumbling upon it by accident, there’s no way to tell. “However it is you managed to do this to yourself, that doesn’t matter.” He seems to have decided it was the unintended side-effect of some spell Loki was trying, bless his simple and straightforward mind. “That isn’t something I would _push_ you away for. If anything it’s the opposite.”

 

For a moment his hand grazes the center of Loki’s stomach.

 

Loki closes his eyes and inhales, a sound somewhere between bliss and agony. It’s all so trite. But at the moment, it’s exactly what he needs to hear.

 

He moves his head so that he can feel the edge of Balder’s lips just touching his neck. “I want to know something. How long is it that you’ve been in love with me, exactly?” Loki demands with burning curiosity. “When did it start? Did you already feel this way when we were children? Did you already, before I-” He stops, not trusting his voice not to break all of a sudden. “Before you died?”

 

Balder moves his hands a bit, absently stroking his sides. “It hasn’t always been the _same_ feeling,” he explains, musing aloud. “I wouldn’t always call it ‘love’. At least, not the way I feel it now. But what does a child know of _real_ love, except to stubbornly think that what they feel must be it?”

 

Loki can feel his smile against his skin. “I’ve always been at least a little infatuated by you. Interested. Seems like as far back as I can remember I was watching from a distance.”

 

“Wondering why I couldn’t manage to be like all the rest?” Loki puts in, voice quiet to keep the bitterness from seeping through.

 

“No, no, I…I liked that you weren’t like everyone else. That you were different.” Balder rubs his nose against the nape of Loki’s neck, ruffling his hair. “It made you fascinating. Beautiful.”

 

Loki swallows, not sure what to think. Only that he feels like he is drowning. “But I wasn’t nice to you,” he protests. “I hated you. I must have made no secret of _that_. The things I would do to you, and say-”

 

“You’re not exactly pleasant to me all the time now, either,” Balder notes with what sounds like amusement. “Just last week you told me my playing and singing ranked slightly below listening to baying dogs.”

 

Loki shakes his head. He twists away, enough so he can face Balder and look him in the eye. “That isn’t the same.” His eyebrows go up. “I was _cruel_ to you – cruel the way that only a spiteful child with no foresight can be. Please, don’t tell me that even then, you were in love with me the whole time.”

 

Balder only hesitates long enough for the answer to already be in his eyes when he speaks. “I did try to make myself stop, once or twice,” he remembers. “But eventually I gave up. Love, true love, is like a tree. You can hack off the branches and remove the trunk as many times as you like. But as long as the roots remain they’ll still be there, deep within the soil where you can’t dig them out. And it will only grow up again once more.”

 

Smiling brightly he goes to brush Loki’s hair with his fingertips, caressing his face. “It’s better to simply let things be,” he concludes. “And enjoy the shade and support your tree has to offer.”

 

Once again, Loki can’t help feeling Balder has a knack for taking his metaphors a little too far. But he understands what he’s trying to say. It’s a touching sentiment.

 

But in the wake of such a heartfelt, ardent confession, Loki is at a loss.

 

“What is it that you _want_ from me?” he demands of Balder, distressed. “Don’t say ‘nothing’. There’s always something. There is.”

 

Balder draws a breath. Loki can see his throat working.

 

And then he pulls Loki in again to have him in his arms the same way once more, and Loki is too surprised and responsive right now to stop him.

 

“What I want from you is this,” Balder says. “To be able to hold you. To talk to you, and touch you, and tell you how I feel. It doesn’t matter if no one else can know or see; all that matters is _you_.”

 

Loki’s arms are crossed in front of him and without moving Balder reaches for both of his hands. Without thinking Loki grasps him back, fingers parting so that theirs can lace together. His breath catches when Balder gives his hands a gentle squeeze.

 

It’s too much. Loki doesn’t know how he became this person; it snuck on him without any warning. It frightens him how much he can enjoy it. How he never wants what’s happened to him to stop.

 

Balder kisses the underside of his jaw. “I’ll give you everything, freely. Everything I am, every last bit of my heart. All I ask for is a piece of yours in return.” His breath moves across Loki’s neck. “You can have me, if I can have you. I give you my love, for yours.”

 

Loki freezes. He feels like he’s in pain. He’s falling now, he knows it – and he’s about to hit the bottom hard.

 

Out of all the things Balder could’ve asked him. Why did it have to be that?

 

 _Yes_ , a voice inside him cries, hopelessly. But it’s no good. Much as he wants to, he simply can’t force the words past his throat. His silver tongue, always so quick with lies and careless remarks, has become a leaden stopper.

 

Loki sits in Balder’s embrace and he tilts his head back, corners of his eyes crinkling so he can fight the tears he refuses to let well.

 

He’s taking too long to answer. But instead of repeating the question more forcefully, demanding it, Balder holds him tighter. “You don’t…have to say it,” he clarifies, his voice shaken with feeling. “I don’t need the words. What I need is to _see_ it. If you feel the same for me Loki, I don’t need to hear it in your voice. I just…want to _know_.”

 

Loki looks down at their hands together.

 

“You want me to show it to you,” he says quietly. He tries to smile but his face spasms too much. “I think I can do that, Balder. I think that I can.”

 

Balder lets out a sigh. He presses his face against him again, in perfect happiness.

 

Such a _simple_ thing. And yet, anything but.

 

Loki makes up his mind all at once. He doesn’t care if how he feels for Balder is something from his affections only or some twisted result of his biology. He doesn’t _care_. It makes him feel too good, all warm inside and…perfect. Like nothing else matters. Not a thing in all the nine realms. So if it’s a lie, let him believe it, and if it’s dream, he never wants to wake up.

 

He turns around in Balder’s arms and hand going to his shoulder meets his lips in a kiss.

 

Eyes closed Loki wills every muscle and cell in his body to shout _love_ , and he knows that Balder hears it.

 

When they part, Loki sweeps Balder in a more heated, meaningful look.

 

“Now why don’t you get out of those dirty clothes,” he remarks, standing up and drawing Balder with him. Balder takes in Loki’s already naked body with a reverent gaze. “And come to bed.”

 

Balder holds mostly still and lets him undress him. With wicked eagerness Loki barely has the presence to keep each of Balder’s layers and pieces piled relatively neatly nearby, instead of just throwing them all over. There’s still mud and residue on his clothes and it probably gets onto the floor. _Oh well_ , Loki thinks dismissively. He can always clean it up in the morning.

 

He does use magic to wipe the dirt from Balder’s skin though.

 

It makes the taste much more pleasant, when he draws lines along it with his tongue.

 

They’re kissing again, hands tangling; Loki presses Balder’s thigh between his and rubs into him, drawing a groan that’s crushed behind Loki’s mouth. When Balder’s hands go to his hips Loki slides one of his own around the back of Balder’s neck, then with the other tries to guide one of Balder’s more towards his spine, then further down towards the crease.

 

Balder doesn’t hesitate but he only fingers Loki for long enough to draw a pleased gasp before he draws away again.

 

Loki can’t help frowning at him. “What?”

 

“Actually, I thought.” Balder stops, jaw working. “I thought that maybe, this time…if you wanted to, of course-”

 

He lifts his eyes to meet Loki’s, face heating, threatening to turn red.

 

All at once Loki understands. He grins in thrilled surprise. ‘ _You prefer to be taken’_ – no wonder Balder was so accepting of that. It’s a preference they _both_ share.

 

“Oh, yes,” Loki says lowly, his eyes half-lidding as he gives a smile that is full of dark promises. “Yes, in fact. I think that I’d like that very much.”

 

Balder gives no resistance as he is thrown face-first down onto the bed. As Loki straddles him, spreading him apart as he uses nothing but long fingers coated in his own saliva to prepare him, doing a _very_ thorough job to make up for it. Balder writhes against him, but in pleasure and seeking friction, as Loki puts his cock in just far enough to tease before swiftly drawing it out.

 

“Please, please,” Balder keens.  
  


“Gladly,” Loki pants, rough.

 

He takes Balder by his arms easing him up so that he’s on his knees, and then kneeling behind him on the bed proceeds to insert his cock all the way.

 

Balder gives out a sharp cry, while Loki a half-hiss of satisfaction. He fucks Balder at a steady and quickly building pace, hand slipping down across muscled torso to take his partner’s hardened erection in hand.

 

Their union lasts less time than the first. Balder is hot for him, ready for him. And Loki _wants;_ he wants Balder to come almost even more than he wants it for himself. They’ve been thinking of each other all day.

 

Love, it turns out, is quite the aphrodisiac.

 

Loki considers drawing it out a little more, via either magic or technique. But he decides he doesn’t want to. After all there’ll be plenty of time to experiment and play games with each other later.

 

Balder comes with the most exquisite sound. Loki trembles and has to turn a playful bite into a kiss, lest he accidentally draw blood, as he follows.

 

Afterward, when they recover enough to move again, there’s no question of parting. Loki blows a kiss at the torch to put it out, and together they crawl in a tangle of sweat-slicked and still shaking limbs underneath the covers. Balder’s hands go for Loki’s waist and the action is mirrored by Loki on the opposite side.

 

They lay face to face. Their noses bump. They meet eyes even in the dark.

 

 _You’re mine_ , Loki thinks in a victorious note that sings out from deep within him, possessive happiness.

 

And being Balder’s is such a small price to pay for that, really.

 

*

 

The coronation of Thor the Mighty, Son of Odin, Wielder of Mjolnir, Thunderer, is as splendid and well-executed as Asgard would’ve expected. The full extent of the celebrations last for nearly a month. It’s said there’s not a dry tankard in all the kingdom by the time it is over.

 

Once the festivities are ended, however, it is time for the new king to begin the actual business of his reign. And this he takes to with notably less enthusiasm than the cheer and proclamations associated with the ascension itself.

 

It seems that young King Thor did not realize that along with power came also tedium, and duty, and no small amount of weighty responsibility.

 

But with badgering he does what he has to, for the good of the kingdom, and if he’s grumpy and short-tempered from time to time, well. It’s said even the All-Father was not perfect when he first took the throne. A century or two, most agree with sage nods, should cure the brunt of his rashness.

 

His younger brother, however, does not seem to bear watching his sibling flounder with ease. Loki becomes even more moody and secretive than usual. If he makes less obvious trouble than is standard, the court and the servants still live in fear of his wrath.

 

And only a few months after Thor has been crowned he storms out, under some half-believable excuse of being sent to examine a few of Asgard’s far holdings, and pay a diplomatic visit to the Norns.

 

Tongues wag and heads shake, but it isn’t really unexpected. King Thor, who has ever been the light to his brother’s shadow, fully expects him to return. And so the people suppose they should too.

 

What _is_ unexpected is when Loki returns however, it’s holding a small wrapped bundle in his arms.

 

The bundle turns out to be a baby girl, with fair skin and round cheeks, soft brown hair that’s already forming ringlet curls. She is, without a doubt, the most lovely and perfectly-formed child many have ever seen.

 

“And what is this, brother?” Thor asks him calmly when Loki stands before them in the assembly hall.

 

“This,” Loki replies with a proud smirk, “is my daughter, Helena.”

 

Of course there would’ve always been rumors regardless of _what_ the prince said. It would only be natural, him returning with a babe in his arms. Especially as the child grows and the newborn blue fades from her eyes in favor of a very familiar green. Still, it’s rather shocking, him just coming out with it like that.

 

A few frown over the timing. Loki was gone only two seasons, and the baby is almost a season old. Not long enough for him to have had a dalliance and a child pressed upon him by its mother.

 

Maybe, they wonder, this is the _real_ reason the prince left in such a hurry. A secret lover, waist thickening with his get, that he had to attend to.

 

A few others puzzle over the fact that the toy boar the king gives to his niece as a name-gift is clearly forged by the dwarves – which means he would’ve had to commission it in advance.

 

And some simply scratch their heads over the fact that Wicked Loki, their Trickster prince, would give his daughter a name that means ‘light’.

 

But wherever the baby Helena – or ‘Hel’, as her family calls her – came from, it is clear she is well loved and beautiful. And for that, all agree, little could be said against.


End file.
